The King's Concubine

Chapter Ten

Edward went into immediate conference with Gaunt. I knew nothing of the discussions, always the preserve of men, but I saw the results. The King was once more at the head of affairs, the reins firmly in his fist: Gaunt was ordered to Gascony with an army to give the beleaguered Prince some aggressive support against French incursions. Even more impressive, Edward ordered a second attack from Calais under a tough old campaigner, Sir Robert Knolles. If I had needed any evidence of Edward’s recovery, it was this: a two-pronged attack from north and south that he had used in his early campaigns to good effect. At the same time a whirlwind of envoys was dispatched to the Low Countries, to Germany and Genoa, to enlist allies against the King of France.

Edward’s nights were spent with me, where anxieties still gnawed at him.

“I should be leading the attack,” he fretted. “Am I not strong enough?”

“Of course you are.”

But the depredations of Philippa’s death had dug deep. His strength was much restored, but however much I might not like to admit it, Edward’s mind had lost its incisive edge. While he was playing chess, reading a book of favorite poetry, enjoying the music of a well-played lute and sweet singing, his concentration could vanish, his awareness of his surroundings drifting away like high clouds under the strength of a summer sun. Even his confidence waned. And as it faded, my fears for him grew. He would never lead his troops with the same superb flamboyance, if at all. And yet I gave thanks: The isolation was over and Edward was reunited with his Court. A victory at Gaunt’s hands in France would in some measure restore Edward’s confidence in his ability to make well-balanced decisions. I poured two cups of fine Bordeaux, a wine symbolic of Edward’s possessions.

“To England’s victory!” I raised mine, and drank.

“To England! And to you, my love.” Edward kissed me with all the passion of a mighty king.

I celebrated too soon, of course. The news that trickled in over the coming months was not good. In the north King Charles of France had learned from past mistakes and refused to be drawn into battle against a major force. Knolles, increasingly vilified, lost impetus and authority, his troops becoming separated and easy meat for the French vultures to pick off. In the south we fared better. Limoges was sacked and burned, which put a stop to the French cause in that vicinity, but all we heard were tales of the Prince’s being forced to return to Bordeaux, abandoning the attack, defeated not by the French but by his own pain-racked body.

Edward’s convictions drained away.

“Gaunt is there,” I soothed. “He will take control. There is no need to worry.”

But increasingly Edward looked inward and was reluctant to talk to me. Nor did I realize the problem until I saw him waiting on the battlements for news that did not come, with young Thomas clamped to his side by a heavy hand on his shoulder, even though Thomas shuffled and twitched, clearly wishing to be in the stables or practicing his swordplay—anywhere but with his burden of a father.

“Then go!” Edward snapped, releasing the boy, and Thomas went with alacrity.

When I took the boy’s place, tucking my hand within his arm, Edward smiled, but there was a loss in his face. It was not I he wanted, and although the remedy was clear to me, it was not a pleasant one. I thought I would not enjoy the outcome, but I was woman enough and confident enough in my new role to do it. For the sake of the King’s health, I would risk the consequences.

I wrote a formal invitation on good-quality vellum, complete with wax and Edward’s seal, and prepared to dispatch it with a courier in full regalia. It was wholly illegal for the King’s Concubine to employ the royal seal—but why not? It could not help but have the desired effect. With a duplicity for which I made no excuse, I kept it from Edward. What point in raising his hopes if by some chance it never came to pass? Nor did I sign my name—it crossed my mind that I might just live to regret this missive. Indeed, I stood before the fire in my chamber, holding it between my fingertips as I considered consigning the document to the flames.

Could I not provide all the affection that Edward needed?

But news arrived. Devastating news that drove Edward to his knees in the chapel, his face ravaged with distress. The Prince’s tiny son and heir, Edward of Angouleme, heir to England’s crown, had died in Bordeaux. The Prince was too ill and distraught to carry on the campaign. He would return to England, leaving the campaigning in the increasingly ineffective hands of Gaunt.

Edward wept.

In the same hour I sent the letter. I could not afford to change my mind.

I wrote again to Windsor, with rigid formality.

I am restored to Edward’s pleasure. And to his confidences. He has no interest in Ireland. The Gascony situation takes all his attention, which at best is wayward. You are still your own man in Ireland and I think there will be no interference from London.

I received a reply by return of the courier, in Windsor’s trenchant style—he wrote as he spoke.

I received your two letters within days of each other; such is the difficulty of communication. I am relieved that you are restored.

For me or for him? I grimaced cynically.

Keep my name in Edward’s mind. This is a hard road and I need all the help I can get.

The final paragraph surprised me.

I would give you one more piece of advice. You have experienced what it will be like for you without royal patronage. I did warn you when we last met. You rejected my advice. Now you know it for the truth. Your position as royal mistress can be undermined in the blink of an eye. Make the most of your opportunities while you can. I doubt the Prince and his ambitious wife will make a place for you at Court.

And then I was more than surprised.

I think of our meetings more frequently than I might wish. Yours was not a comfortable companionship, but I find that you dwell in my thoughts. It might surprise you to know that you are, on occasion, impossible to dislodge. You have claws of steel. So, accepting that, I admit that your wit and charm give me consolation in my isolation in this place. With some regret, I do not see myself returning to London within the foreseeable future. I think we would have dealt well together if events had fallen out differently.

Keep well, Alice. Keep safe. Your supreme position will make your enemies livelier than you might imagine. Take care that you do not put any weapons into their hands.

Accept this advice from one who knows.

I laughed softly, and then stared as I unwrapped the package that accompanied the reply, its content obvious even before I unrolled the soft leather: a slim-bladed knife that could be secreted in a sleeve or bodice. A lethal means of protection from the assassin. How ridiculous of him! Who would possibly wish me physical harm?

I found that I too regretted Windsor’s absence from Court. I doubted he would be faithful to that final less-than-chaste kiss. But then, as King’s Concubine, neither was I.

He had my protection in mind. A foolish dog and a slim blade.

Should I have been afraid? I was not. My mistake, perhaps.

The reply to my royal invitation took longer to arrive than Windsor’s letter, but was far more impressive when it did. It came in person, arriving at Windsor with palanquins, outriders, and an impressive military escort with its pennons fluttering bravely. Eye catching and ostentatious, such an entourage could only have one owner. Yes, I conceded. I might just regret this. But it was the only answer to the problem that I could see.

Family!

Edward needed family around him. He wanted—as he had all his life—his children and the memories they brought him. He might be heroic on the battlefield, he might be a superb administrator, his physical presence might be matchless, but at home he needed the anchor of family. The absence of humor and affection played on his temper, his spirits. Philippa and the offspring she had borne him had been so vitally important to him after his own childhood of loneliness and isolation under the selfish hand of his mother. Creating his own family had been all-important to him, giving him all the stability and love he had never had.

But what now, now that his family had dwindled? Two sons in France, both heavily committed to war. Lionel dead in Italy. His daughters, except for one, all dead. Young Thomas too young and self-interested with the occupations of youth to give his father real companionship. Edward needed family around him.

Why can’t you give him what he needs? I demanded crossly, but honesty made me admit: I could give him much, but not the sense of belonging that Edward needed. And the one remedy was, regrettably, Isabella, his much-loved daughter. Willful, capricious, a lover of ostentation and show. She was the remedy.

Now, below me, emerging from the swagged and cushioned palanquin was the unmistakable figure of Isabella, without her much-desired husband but with two little girls with the same fair hair and dawning beauty as their mother. I watched her arrival from the little chamber above the main door. Hardly had she set foot on the ground than she began to issue orders as if she had never been away.

I tapped my fingers against the window ledge as Isabella laid claim to Havering. Should I waylay her or let her settle in and meet Edward on her own terms? I mentally tossed the choices. If I went down now, there would only be a clash of words and personalities, with no one to cushion the resentment that would erupt like a flame to dry tinder. Ah! But if I let her see Edward, make her own rules, order her own accommodations, I would immediately put myself at a disadvantage. Isabella would take control before we sat down together for supper.

Well, now! I stilled my fingers, considering the appropriateness of my garments for the occasion that I foresaw. Since when had I retreated from a little unpleasantness? Was I not chatelaine of this palace since my very public elevation at the hunt? Who supervised the money and the housekeeping? God help me to harness my words and my temper—I needed her as my ally. So, having the niceties of Court ceremonial for the welcoming of important personages at my fingertips, I was standing on the dais in the Great Hall, clad in Court finery, Latimer and a servant at my side, when she eventually swept in.

“Are my rooms prepared?” she asked of no one in particular, imperious as ever, magnificent as ever, superbly gowned in an overrobe of silver and dulcet green that I instantly coveted. If I had not deliberately selected my newest gown, very much to Edward’s taste, rapidly replacing the insignificant robe of leaf green that I had been wearing when I set eyes on Isabella’s splendor, I would have paled into anonymity. Isabella retained her old habit of cutting one’s confidence off at the knees. But I was now prepared to herald my new wealth and status in a startling figure-hugging robe of violet silk patterned in vermilion and blue. It was impossible to pale into insignificance in such a gown coupled with a cotehardie of gold damask. I was mistress here, and I signaled to the servant to lead Isabella’s entourage and her two daughters to the accommodations I had had made ready for them.

Isabella remained. Her eye avoided me with careful nonchalance and fell on Latimer instead.

“Latimer! It’s good to be back. Some wine, if you please.”

“Of course, my lady.” Latimer bowed to the Princess, and then to me, before exiting to obey the command. Isabella caught the action, as she must, and her brows rose into perfect arches as her gaze fixed on me, as I knew it would when she deemed it suitable. She had seen me the moment she had stepped across the threshold. How could she be blind to violet and vermilion?

“Well! Mistress Perrers!”

“My lady.” I curtsied.

“I didn’t expect you to be here still. And what role do you occupy now that you are no longer a damsel?” The disdain might have cut me to the quick if I were of a mind to let it. “Can I guess? Palace whore?”

I stayed unmoving on the dais. “Things have changed, my lady.”

“They must have, if you are giving orders to Latimer.” She produced a sudden frown. “Does my father know? I presume he does.”

“Of course.”

“So you have stepped into my mother’s shoes.”

“One might say.…”

She was uncomfortable, and I enjoyed it. Would she ask me outright? A servant entered with a tray of wine and offered it, kneeling before me. I motioned him to offer it to the Princess instead. What pleasure it gave me.

Her lovely face had acquired the consistency of granite. “You are controlling the household, it seems.”

I inclined my head. “Someone must. It pleases the King that I do it.”

Isabella deliberately ignored the wine. “I’ll soon change that.”

“Certainly, my lady. If you intend to take on the burden yourself…”

I knew that the Princess had no intention of taking on such a role. So did she.

“Where is the King?” she demanded.

“In the stables, I believe.” Isabella turned on her heel. “Wait!” I had to speak now. “There’s something you should know.…”

She halted. “And that is…?”

“The King has not been robust.”

“So?”

“Have a care in your choice of words to him.”

“I don’t need you to tell me.”

I stepped down and faced her, our eyes much on a level. “But you do. You have not seen him in the weeks—months—since Her Majesty’s death. I have.”

She considered this, momentary indecision clear in her pursed lips, then spun around to accost Latimer, who had stepped quietly into the Great Hall again. “I understand the King has been ill, Latimer.”

“Yes, my lady. But he is now much improved.”

So she did not trust me to give her the truth even about her father. I had some bridges to mend if I would make use of this Plantagenet princess. And seeing the ingrained hostility in the set of her spine, in her rigid shoulders, I thought I might have wagered wrongly in that damned invitation.

“Have you taken advantage of his kindness?” she demanded, jealousy thick in her voice. “I see you’ve been more than busy.” Now that I was close, her eyes narrowed on my expanding waist. “Another bastard? Who’d have thought you’d have the wit to rise so high. But beware, Mistress Perrers; you’ll rise no more.”

I swallowed a smart retort. Isabella was an intelligent woman and I must appeal to that. I walked beside her, keeping step even when she quickened hers as if she would shake me off. Isabella had no idea how single-minded the Queen’s erstwhile damsel could be.

“He can’t be too ill,” she announced. “He invited me here to participate in a celebration.”

“I know.”

“He said he was arranging a tournament.”

“Yes.”

“Would a man who was ailing commit himself to a tournament?”

“No.”

“When is it to be held?”

“It isn’t.” That stopped her. Once again we faced each other like two cats posturing on a roof ridge. “There is no such arrangement,” I stated.

“Who wrote the letter?”

“I did.”

I heard the intake of breath, saw her nostrils narrow, and awaited the outburst, but it did not come. Rather her stare turned speculative. “To what purpose? You would invite me here?”

“You sound surprised.”

“If you wanted to rule the roost, you would not bring me back to England. We both know my inclination is also to rule.”

“That I know.”

“So why?”

“The King’s spirits are low. The Prince’s state of health is uncertain, and his little son is dead. The King’s in no mood for tournaments. Unless you persuade him, of course.”

“I’ll speak with him.” She eyed me thoughtfully.

I smiled thinly. “I wish you well, my lady.” And I did. Edward needed the distraction. “And I should tell you: The King does not know I sent for you.”

I watched her go; the energy in her step was undoubtedly a flounce. She would not like what Latimer had to show her. I sighed and looked down to Braveheart, who pressed against my leg. God help me! Had I invited a vixen into the chicken run?

Isabella was in a conflagration of temper when I walked through the gardens to join the royal father and daughter and test the air between them.

“I have been turned out of my rooms!”

“Turned out?” Edward chuckled at the drama of it. “I expect you’ve been provided with something larger and far more fitting—you’ve brought the children, I presume.”

“The rooms were mine—you had them built for me!”

“So I did. But they were empty. Why not make use of them? You rarely visit, and Alice finds them very comfortable.”

Did I not say? Edward had moved me into the sumptuous royal apartments. When I had listed what I had wanted, I could not have envisaged what I got: the suite of palatial rooms constructed for a princess. And how I relished them.

A taut silence fell on us like a hoarfrost, sharp and cold, broken only by the strident cry of a magpie in the stand of trees. Isabella took a breath. I wondered what she would say, whether she could manage to be diplomatic. The line of her jaw had the tension of a bowstring. She stopped on the path with a swish of embroidered skirts, and turned foursquare to Edward.

“You would put your mistress in my room?”

No diplomacy here. Careful! I breathed. Careful, Isabella! He may be aging, but his pride is as strong as it ever was. In confirmation, Edward’s hand closed tightly into a fist.

“I think you should ask pardon for that,” he remarked mildly enough.

“Do we pretend she is not? That she was not, in all those years when my mother was alive?”

The ermine mantle of royalty slipped invisibly but impressively back onto Edward’s shoulders. Even they braced as if to take the weight of it.

“I’ll tolerate much, Isabella, but not that. You will not judge me or your mother. I have given Alice the authority to administer my household.”

“I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to. You are a guest. If you do not like it, there is no compunction on you to remain.” Isabella’s lips parted, then clamped together. “Exactly! You are not without intelligence.” Edward smiled, but the warning was still there. He knew exactly what he had achieved for me. “Now that the formalities are over, how long will you stay? We must see what we can do to entertain you.”

Isabella’s glance slid to mine. I left them planning. They were two of a kind when it came to outward display and spending money. So Isabella would stay for some weeks, but I was secure in Edward’s favor. Daughter and mistress could work very well together when they had to, to ward off the dread melancholy.

Isabella had other ideas, of course. She whispered in my ear as we entered the Great Hall together for supper. “Don’t expect to win my regard. You won’t succeed. You’re an upstart, Mistress Perrers.”

True. I was, and always would be, but I had worked hard for my position. I decided to flex my claws a little.

“I don’t need your regard, my lady.” I remained solemn as she raised her brows. “His Majesty needs me in his life far more than he needs you.”

“He’ll listen to me.…”

“No, he will not. Ah…” Edward was there to lead me to the chair at his right hand. “Perhaps your daughter should take the preeminent position,” I suggested smoothly. “For tonight, at least. As an honored guest…”

I showed my teeth in a smile. Isabella returned it but with a flash of eye as she sat. It was an excellent evening, with food and wine and music and entertainment. The King’s spirits revived under his daughter’s ready wit. She paced beside me as we left the chamber.

“Have a care, Mistress Perrers.”

“I always do, my lady! I always do. As I have a care for the King.”

She was furious, she would remain my enemy, but I knew she saw the truth in what I had said.

I left the field to Isabella through necessity, for I could barely see my toes over the swell of my belly. When the child kicked incessantly and I began to find life at Court wearying, I announced my intentions. Edward kissed my lips and my hands and packed me into one of his royal barges as if I were a precious piece of glass.

I had just acquired the house and manor of Pallenswick through Greseley’s clever negotiation and my borrowed gold coin, courtesy of the royal Treasury. And Pallenswick was a gleaming gem of a property on the banks of the Thames, to which I had moved my sons and my whole household. My access to Edward and the Court was as easy as donning a pair of silk slippers.

“I’ll come if I can,” Edward assured me.

“I’ll do just as well without you.” I knew he would be engaged in the progress of the war, and would be barred from the birthing chamber, King or no. Isabella would keep his spirits in good order.

“I’ll have Masses said for your safe delivery. Send me word.”

“I will.”

“I’ll be content if you bear me a daughter.”

“As long as she’s less combative than Isabella!”

“Difficult not to be.” Edward’s laughter startled the ducks that quacked in the shallows. Then, as I settled myself against the pillows: “Don’t go!”

The tightening of his hands around mine was a consolation, but I knew I must. In some matters I valued my independence. I wished to be under my own roof when I gave birth. And so I left Court. There was no secrecy now. My departure was marked with banners and pennons and a royal escort, such that all the world was aware that the King’s Concubine would bear him another child. Isabella found other affairs to occupy her so that she would not have to pretend a degree of concern. Good practice, all in all.

My wolfhound traveled with me, nervous of the water. A more misnamed animal I had never met. I carried Windsor’s dagger in my sleeve.

A basket of new-laid eggs rested on the table in the kitchen at Pallenswick, where I was engaged in helping my housekeeper to clear out boxes of wizened fruit from the previous autumn. And tucked between the eggs was a letter. An unconventional delivery, forsooth. Intrigued, keeping an eye to Joanne, my new daughter, who slept in her crib beside the hearth, I retrieved it and unfolded the single page. A brief note, no superscription, no signature, no seal. So someone wished to remain anonymous but had gone to a lot of trouble.

It is necessary for you to return to Westminster. Personal circumstances must not be allowed to stand in your way. It is for your good and that of the King.

A clerk’s hand. But from whom? I tapped the note lightly against the brown egg on the top of the pile. Not Edward. It was not his style, and why the need for secrecy? Wykeham? He would not stoop to unsigned missives. He would not need to, surely, as Edward’s Chancellor. Edward’s physician? If Edward were ill, a courier would have arrived with a horn blasting out its warning. Certainly not Isabella…None the wiser, I dropped the letter into the fire with a wry smile. Who would actually want me to return? I might be the acknowledged concubine, but most would happily clap me in a dungeon as far away from the King and Court as possible.

For the length of time it took me to walk from kitchen to parlor, the sleeping infant now in my arms, I considered taking no heed of it. But then—it was a warning. It was for the good of the King. I could not afford to ignore it—or could I? I did not appreciate an anonymous request that smacked of an order. I would think about it overnight.

I wished the anonymous writer a close association with the fires of hell.

I was, of course, up betimes, ordering my belongings packed and a barge made ready. I kissed my new daughter—fair and blue eyed like her father, named Joanne after Edward’s beloved dead daughter who had been taken by the plague. I had balked at the name, it being uncomfortably reminiscent of the woman who had disparaged my low birth and consigned me to a life of drudgery, but on this occasion Edward’s wishes took precedence. So I bade my daughter and sons farewell, admonished nurse and tutor with a multitude of unnecessary instructions, and set off for London within the hour. The writer of the note would make himself known soon enough.

I arrived to find that in my absence Edward had summoned a Parliament. It did not disturb me in any manner. With a new campaigning season approaching, a parliamentary session to give approval for taxation to raise the moneys to pay the English forces was an obvious step. It gave the palace at Westminster, where Edward was in residence, an air of turmoil. There was an unusual scurry and bustle, the stabling overcrowded, and accommodations for lords and bishops at a premium. The commons had to make what shrift they could. It would not affect me. Closing my door against the commotion without, I sighed with the pleasure of arrival. But not for long. I expect I scowled.

“You took your time!” John of Gaunt announced.

“What are you doing here?” I was not gracious. Why was I rarely gracious around John of Gaunt? And to find him here in my rooms, without my invitation. I think I always feared him. Gaunt was as ever impervious, sitting on the window ledge, his foot braced against the stone coping.

“I’m waiting for you, Mistress Perrers.”

He’d had little to do with me since our initial agreement. Oh, his public recognition of me was superb. He might be forced to accept my importance to Edward, but still I thought he despised me. So what was he doing here? Unless…Suspicion began to flutter over my skin.

“I came as soon as I could,” I said.

“I expected you yesterday.”

I was right. He was plotting again. “So you sent the letter, my lord.”

“That’s not important. It brought you back. It should have been sooner.”

I resented his tone—the peremptory demand, his overt criticism. My response was biting. “You didn’t have the courage to sign it, did you, my lord?”

“Nothing to do with courage. More to do with discretion.”

“So that no one knows you sent for the King’s paramour? How unfortunate for you that you are driven to consort with such as me, having to admit that you actually have a need of me. Once was enough. But to have to ask again! How can you tolerate it, my lord?” How savage my taunts, but he had caught me on the raw.

Gaunt was on his feet, striding toward the door. I had pushed his arrogant pride too far.

“Wait!”

He halted abruptly, his face stony. “I don’t have need of you. I was mistaken.”

“Obviously you do.” I removed my mantle and hood, giving myself time to struggle against the inclination to let him go and slam the door at his back. It must be serious for Gaunt to come to me; therefore it was for me to make the first gesture to this man whose conceit was vast. “Let us begin again, my lord.” I stretched out my hand in a gesture of conciliation. “Tell me what the problem is and I will answer you.”

Serious indeed! Gaunt needed no second invitation. “He refuses to do it. And he must. You are the only one he’ll listen to. Regrettable, but a fact. You’ve got to persuade him.”

Typical of the man to dive into the middle of the problem without explanation.

“I presume you mean the King. And I might persuade him if you are more specific. Come and sit with me, my lord, and tell me what’s stirred this particular pot. Is it Parliament?”

“By God, it is!”

He sat and told me all in short, incisive sentences.

Parliament had begun the session in unfriendly mood. Their list of complaints would carpet the floor from Westminster to the Tower. All the money granted by the previous session—what had happened to it? Vanished without trace and with no achievement for it! England’s proud name had been ground into the mud of Europe. Gascony was more or less lost. Where was the English Navy? Were there not rumors of French invasion plans? And now the King was daring to ask them for more finance. Well, they wouldn’t provide it! It was throwing good money after bad.

I listened, honestly perplexed.

“I do not see how I can help in this matter,” I observed at the end.

“They are looking for scapegoats,” Gaunt snarled, as if I were witless not to see it. “They are unwilling to attack the King directly, but they are intent on drawing the blood of his ministers, accusing them of poor judgment. And unfortunately Parliament has discovered a weapon. What do all Edward’s ministers have in common?”

I saw the direction of this. “They are all men of the Church.”

“Exactly! Priests, to a man. What do they know about warfare? Nothing! Parliament wants them removed before they’ll consider taxation.”

It was now very clear, my role in Gaunt’s plans. “And Edward will not do it.”

“No. He is driven by loyalty. I can’t move him. And if he won’t comply…we would have a crisis at home to match the one in France.”

“If I persuade Edward to dismiss his clerics, who will replace them?” I asked.

Gaunt smiled bleakly. “Here’s my suggestion.…”

I listened to his planning. It was masterly. I could not find fault with it.

“Will you do it?”

I stared at him. “Will your new ministers not be unpopular?”

“Why should they be? They’re not clerics.”

“But they’ll be seen as your men.”

“They’re men of talent!”

So they were. But for a moment I simply sat and considered the whole, making Gaunt wait just a little, because I was in a mood to do so. I could see no fault with his plan—and it would rescue the King’s relationship with Parliament. It had much to recommend it.

“I will do it, my lord.”

“I’m obliged!”

The agreement was accepted by the curtest of nods, and Gaunt strode from my rooms, leaving my previous good humor disturbed. Damn the man! Gaunt and I might be allies in this, but it would never be an easy alliance. It crossed my mind that it might be like getting into bed with a viper.

Together Gaunt and I found Edward engaged in some heated conversation with Latimer. He greeted me with a smile, saluting my cheeks, but the welcome was notable for its brevity, even a touch of irritation.

“You should have told me you intended to return, Alice. I can give you only a few minutes, because…”

The burdens were hemming him in again. I saw the strain of holding his far-flung possessions together dragging at the muscles of his face. He looked beleaguered.

“We’re here to talk about your ministers, Sire,” Gaunt intervened gently.

“You know my feelings about that.…”

There was an irresolution about Edward that worried me. I touched his arm, drawing his eyes to my face.

“I have talked with your son, my lord. My advice is to do as he says.”

“My ministers have served me well.…”

“But Parliament will not give them the benefit of the doubt. You need money from Parliament whether you like it or not, Edward. How can you fight without their support? Dismiss your clerics, my lord. Now is not the time to be indecisive.”

I think I said no more and no less than Gaunt must have said already, but Edward listened to me.

“You think I should bow to Parliament’s will?” His mouth acquired a bitter downturn.

“Yes, Edward. I do. I think it would be good politics.”

So he did it.

And the men who came forward in the place of the unfortunate clerics proved to be the exact same coterie of men who had met with me in the circular room. All friends and associates of Gaunt, able men, ambitious men. Men who would serve Edward well and be loyal to Gaunt. Within the week the reorganization was complete. Carew became Lord Keeper of the Privy Seal. Scrope took on the burden of Treasurer. Thorp became the new Chancellor. William Latimer was honored with the position of royal Chamberlain, while Neville of Raby replaced him as Steward to the royal household. Thus a Court clique to close tightly around Edward and cushion him against the world that he found increasingly difficult to recognize.

I watched them bow before the King. Gaunt had it right: They were his men and would be bound to him, and since it was my influence that brought them to the forefront, they would be loyal to me also. Not one of them would dare oppose me, giving me friends at Court who would not neglect my interests.

So I took my first overt step into government circles.

“You must not worry, my lord.” I raised one of Edward’s hands to my lips. “They will serve you well.” The days when his palms were calloused from rein and sword were long gone. The strain in him, his lack of vision for the future, were pitiable. He was like an aging stag, still leader of the herd but with the weight of years beginning to dim the fire in his eye. Soon the hounds would be baying to drink his blood. Perhaps they already were.

“It is good that you are back,” he said. “Have you brought the infant?”

“No. She is with her nurse. But I will. You will see her.”

I accompanied him to the mews to inspect a new pair of merlins just taken into training, relieved to see him enjoy the moment as he handled the birds. Edward must not worry. But I would. I would do all I could to keep the dangers at bay.

Gaunt, I presumed, was satisfied with the outcome. He made no genuflection in my direction, but I felt the shackles that bound us together drawing tighter: We were undoubtedly in league, although whether I had sold my soul to Gaunt or he had sold his to me was open to debate. This was a marriage of convenience, and could be annulled if either saw fit. We were too wary of each other to be easy bedfellows, but for better or worse, in this political manipulation we were hand in glove.

The result of our conspiracy was immediate and inspiring. Edward addressed Parliament with all his old fire and won their approval, and the money was forthcoming. England could go to war again, whilst I smugly castigated the far-distant William de Windsor. Look to your enemies, he had warned me. He had been wrong. I had friends at Court now. Perhaps I should write to tell him. I consigned his dagger to a coffer.

“I don’t need you!” I informed an entirely unimpressed Braveheart, who had curled up on the hem of my gown.

And if I needed confirmation of the rise of my bright star in the heavens of Court politics, that was immediate too. When gifts were exchanged between the royal Plantagenets, as was habitual at Easter, the sense of Gaunt’s obligation to me must have struck him like a blow to the gut, for he was astonishingly and unexpectedly generous.

He proffered an object wrapped in silk.

I took it, unwrapped it.

Holy Virgin!

It was an exceptional object, a hanap such as I had never seen—a bejeweled drinking vessel, fashioned in silver and gleaming beryls, fit for a king.

Oh, I read Gaunt well. He had a need to keep my allegiance. My voice in his father’s ear was worth every ounce of silver, every one of the jewels set in the hanap, a gift to buy my favors if ever there was one. And why was it so very necessary for this Plantagenet prince to have a royal mistress on his side? Because, as every man in the land knew, of the uneasy state of the succession. Because with the rumors flying out of Gascony of the Prince’s health, no one would wager against the Prince dying before his father, and then the crown would pass to the Prince’s son Richard—a child of four years. A state did not thrive with its ruler not yet out of his minority.

Did Gaunt see the crown of England falling into his own lap? Children’s lives were vulnerable. Richard’s elder brother was already dead in Gascony. Richard might not live.

But Gaunt was not as close to the succession as he might like to be, for would not Lionel’s issue stand before him? Lionel, who had died so tragically in Italy, had produced a daughter by his first marriage. This child, Philippa, who was wed to Edmund Mortimer, the young Earl of March, was now mother to a daughter. If that young couple proved sufficiently fertile to produce a large family, a Mortimer son would take precedence over any offspring of Gaunt.

Not something to Gaunt’s liking, I judged. There was no love lost between him and the Earl of March.

My thoughts wove back and forth as I inspected the splendid cup, as any tapestry maker would create a picture of the whole. It was all too far in the future for speculation, but without doubt Gaunt had much to play for in this complex picture created in my mind. For who would be a better king within the next decade? The child Richard? A Mortimer son as yet unborn? Or Gaunt in his full strength?

And just supposing the situation was solved and Richard lived? Still all would not be lost for Gaunt. A governor would be needed for the young Richard, and it was no secret who would be the obvious choice to educate and protect and direct the young King. Gaunt, of course. Gaunt would be in control. And he might still see the Crown as a not impossible prospect for his own son, young Henry Bolingbroke. And what better than to have as an ally the King’s Concubine, who had the ear of the ailing King. Gaunt saw me as a useful arrow in his quiver in ensuring that the succession fell into the best hands, for nothing would persuade me that he did not have some scheme in mind. He was not a man to take second place, even to his brother, the dying heir, however deep his affection for him might be.

Was this treason on Gaunt’s part? Of course it was.

I smiled, in no manner seduced by the quality of the gift, understanding the motives of the giver perfectly.

“Thank you, my lord.” I curtsied. I would accept the gift, but my loyalty would remain true to Edward.

“It is my pleasure, Mistress Perrers.”

Gaunt too smiled, sly as a fox.

I was not without regrets in all this realigning of alliances and royal ministers. Wykeham, the man who trod the line between friend and enemy, was the one victim in the political maneuvering whom Edward truly mourned, and so did I. I doubted a more honest Chancellor ever existed, but Wykeham was swept away in the anticlerical hysteria. It was impossible to save him.

Edward’s departure from his minister was formal. Mine was not. He was packing his possessions, his beloved books and plans for even more buildings that would never now see the light of day. Standing at the open door, I watched him fold and place everything with meticulous neatness. William de Wykeham, Chancellor no longer. He was the closest to a friend, even if an unnervingly judgmental one, that I had. I did not call Windsor a friend. I was not sure what Windsor was to me.

He did not even turn his head. “If you’ve come to gloat, don’t bother.”

“I have not come to gloat.” Wykeham continued wrapping a bundle of pens in a roll of cloth. “I have come to say farewell.”

“You’ve said it. Now you can go.”

He was hurt, and with every justification. I had stood at Edward’s side and listened to the empty phrases of regret and well-wishing. It had been necessary, and Edward felt the hurt just as keenly as Wykeham, but the man deserved more. I walked ’round the room to force him to face me. He foiled me by picking up and rummaging in a saddlebag.

“Winchester will see more of you,” I remarked, holding out a missal to him.

He snatched it from me. “I will apply my talents where they are appreciated.”

“I’m sorry.”

Now he looked at me. And I saw the pain of betrayal in his doleful eyes. “I never thought you would be the instrument of my dismissal. I thought you valued loyalty and friendship.” He sneered. “You have so many friends, do you not? You can afford to be casual with them.” I felt the blood stain my cheeks. “How wrong a man can be when he doesn’t want to see the truth!”

“I don’t think I was the instrument,” I observed, keeping clear of sentiment. “Parliament wanted you gone. All of you.”

“For crimes none of us committed. For lack of ability—and with what proof? We’ve more experience than the whole job lot of Parliament put together!” He shrugged, placing two more books into the bag. “I didn’t hear you trying to persuade Edward to be loyal to old friends!”

“No, I did not.”

“Nor did Gaunt.” Wykeham glanced up under frowning brows as if to seek proof of what he suspected, and read the answer in my face. “Take care, Alice. You’re swimming with big fish in a small pool here. Gaunt is a powerful man and might wish to become even more powerful. And when he does—when he doesn’t need you any longer—he will be quick enough to rid himself of you.”

“He doesn’t threaten me,” I replied. I thought about our last exchange, when I had returned to Court after Joanne’s birth. “I think he would protect his father by whatever means. And to do that he needs me.”

“I think he would feather his own nest.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“One day you will not be indispensable.” A traveling inkstand followed the two books. “Stay away from him. He’s not known for being scrupulous.” When he looked up again his expression was smoothly bland, as if it were simply a piece of advice to a friend. But it was not. I knew it was not. It was a warning.

“I can’t afford to antagonize Gaunt,” I stated harshly.

“What? When you are the King’s sight and hearing? His right hand?” Wykeham was mocking me now.

“For how long? You know my circumstances better than most. I need all the friends I can get, as you so aptly stated.”

“Then you should turn your mind to making some, rather than antagonizing the whole Court.”

“How can I, when what I am to the King lies at the root of all the hatred? To my mind I am stuck between a rock and a hard place. If I lose Edward, I lose everything. The Court will crow with delight. If I stay with Edward, I have a legion of enemies, because they resent my power. What do I do, most sage counselor?” He was not the only one who could stoop to mockery.

He thought about that. “I don’t know.”

“Well, that’s honest enough.” I growled moodily. “You could pray over me, I suppose.” I wished I hadn’t come.

“I will.…”

“Don’t! I could not bear your pity!”

“You need someone’s.”

I flung away to the window, leaving him to his books, fighting against a ridiculous urge to weep.

“You could try the Prince when he returns,” Wykeham said eventually, when he had allowed me time to recover. A man of cunning politics, Wykeham, in spite of being a man of God. I shook my head. There was no path for me to follow there. Joan would be no friend of mine. “He’s expected home any day now.”

“That’s as may be.” Adroitly I changed the direction of our exchange. “But what of you? At least you’ll not be without comfort in your political exile. A dozen castles, palaces, and houses to your name at the last count.…”

His smile was wry. “But all belonging to my office. None of them mine. I too am vulnerable.” The warmth was gone, and I was sorry.

“I’ll see that you are rewarded,” I found myself saying.

“Now, why would you do that?” How calm his voice, how trenchant his words. “Do I look as if I need your charity?”

“No! And I’ve no idea why I offered it! Since you are so unfriendly I should consign you to the devil.”

“I’ll not go. I’m aiming for a place with the angels.”

“Then my advice is this—don’t associate with me.”

His smile, a merest breath, was a little sad. “You do yourself down, Alice.”

“I merely follow the fashion.”

“I’ve seen you with Edward. You are good to him, and for him.”

“But only for my own ends.” The scathing quality of my reply mirrored his and shook me by its virulence.

“I’ll not argue the case, since you’re determined to douse yourself in self-pity today. You clearly don’t need me to point out your sins.” He looked ’round the bleak, empty room. “Well, that’s it.”

I was sorry I had tried to provoke him. “When do you go?”

“Now.” He bowed, quite formally. “God keep you, Mistress Perrers.”

“He’s more likely to keep you, my lord bishop.” And when he laughed, I leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “Do you know?” I whispered, in a moment of gentle malice. “Sometimes I have thought that we could have been more than friends, if you were not a priest and I not a whore.”

Wykeham’s solemn face creased. “Sometimes,” he whispered back, “I have thought so too. If you ever need me…”

He stopped at the door, and then went out, closing it quietly behind him so that I stood alone in the deserted room. Finding a forgotten quill on the floor, I picked it up and slid it into my sleeve. Bishop Wykeham was a friend worth having, and he was right to castigate my slide into self-pity. I had made my bed and for the most part enjoyed lying in it. It would be an unforgivable weakness if I were to whine about the repercussions.

I must be strong. For Edward, if not for myself and my children.

I watched Wykeham ride out, astonished at the sense of loss that was almost as painful as the guilt. He should not have had to forfeit his offices and his estates, and my guilt increased when Edward gifted one of Wykeham’s estates to me: the pretty, desirable, extremely valuable manor of Wendover in Buckinghamshire, with its fertile fields and timber, its easy routes to London, and I was nudged into making reparation. Greseley had acquired for me the manor of Compton Murdak, and so I granted its use and income to Wykeham. I grimaced as I signed the document. Who said I had a heart of stone? But the grant was for a limited term only, and Compton Murdak would return to me. I was not too softhearted. It behooved me to have an eye to my own wealth, after all.

So Wykeham left, and I turned my mind to a meeting I really did not wish to have, but could not avoid.

I was late. When I arrived, father and son were in the midst of clasping hands in what was undoubtedly a joyful reunion. The Prince had returned to England. It would have been a moment for national and personal rejoicing, if it had not been so shattering for any onlooker.

Shattering? It was a truly horrifying spectacle.

I knew the Prince had needed to be carried into battle as if he were a man of twice his age, that his strength had waned so rapidly that he resembled in no manner the knight who had led his troops at Poitiers. We had all mourned the death of his firstborn son. But nothing could have prepared me for this. Whatever the disease that afflicted him, he was wasting away, his face a gaunt death’s-head. Even from a distance I could see that Edward was as aghast as I.

“Thank God…!” Edward wrapped an arm around his son’s shoulders.

“It’s good to be home.” The Prince stiffened, as if he could not bear to be touched.

“I have longed for this day.”

Edward ushered his son to a seat. Isabella spoke softly, with something like despair freezing her features into what might pass as a smile. And there at Edward’s side, her hand on Edward’s arm as she smiled up into his face, was the Princess Joan.

The Fair Maid of Kent.

I had last seen Joan brushing the dust of Barking Abbey from her skirts. Now I took stock. The years had not been kind to her, her face full and round like a new-made cheese, flesh encroaching on her slight frame so that her once-fastidious features were now flaccid, coarsened, and the remnants of her earlier prettiness wholly overlaid by excess. Over all, gouged in the soft flesh next to mouth and eye were lines of grief and worry.

Edward was busy with the Prince. Isabella and Joan stood a little apart, two forceful women. As I walked toward them, Joan looked ’round, her expression such as she would direct at a servant tardy in bringing wine.

“Here is Alice,” Isabella announced with a face and voice as bland as a dish of whey.

“Alice?” Joan’s lips pursed.

“Alice Perrers. The King’s whore.” Isabella stated it without inflection.

“We had heard.…So it’s true.…” Joan stilled as she saw me, really saw me, for the first time.

I curtsied, my expression, my bright smile, one of disingenuous welcome. “My lady. Welcome back to England.”

Joan’s brows snapped together. Memory returned, as it must. “The Abbey!”

“Yes, my lady. The Abbey.”

“You two know each other?” Senses instantly on the alert, Isabella was jolted out of her blandness, like a cat spying an approaching mouse.

“Yes,” I replied. “The Princess was kind enough to give me a monkey.”

“How unfortunate that it did not poison your blood with its bite,” snapped Joan.

“I have proved to be exceptionally resilient, lady,” I assured her with gracious serenity. “You will be gratified to know that I found your advice most pertinent.”

“Your name was not Perrers,” Joan responded, as if it made a difference.

“No. I have been wed.”

“Fascinating…” Isabella purred. “A reunion. How charming…”

Joan’s gift for razor-edged comment returned with polished venom. “She was naught but a clumsy, nameless servant lent to me to fetch and carry.” She turned on me with fire in her eye. “By what ill chance did you become…?” She gestured to my clothes, my person.

“The King’s lover? No ill chance, lady. I am mistress of my own destiny now.”

“Fortunes change, dear Joan,” Isabella interposed with sparkling devilment. “As you yourself should know. Alice is a remarkably powerful woman.”

“It’s not fitting,” she spat. “And now I’ve returned.…”

“I doubt you’ll change the King’s mind.” Isabella was enjoying this.

“The King will listen to me!” Joan was not.

I waited, sure of my ground. I would not antagonize—that would not be politic—but neither would I give way before such impertinence at the hands of this woman who expected to slide into the preeminent role as the next Queen of England. The preeminent role was mine.

Edward became aware of my presence.

“Alice…” His touch of greeting on my hand was unmistakably intimate.

“My lord. The Princess has been telling me how much she anticipates renewing my acquaintance. It is my greatest wish,” I said, placing my hand softly over Edward’s. “We will do all in our power to make Joan’s return a happy one. I have ordered the apartments at Westminster to be made ready.”

“Excellent!” said Edward.

“A family reunion, no less!” Isabella smiled.

Joan scowled at my use of her given name, then quickly hid it behind a tight curve of her mouth and an unmistakable barbed response. “I cannot express my gratitude!”

So the battle lines were drawn. Joan regarded me as less than a beetle to be squashed beneath the sole of her foot. She might justifiably have expected to order affairs in England to her liking, with the approval of a father-in-law who remembered her fondly as a child brought up in the royal nursery. And now, in the space of a half hour, she had learned that she had a rival. I was the one to order affairs at Court.

But a warning tripped its way down my spine. At some point in the future, which I would not contemplate, Joan would be the one to hold all the power.

“We should celebrate my son’s return,” Edward announced, oblivious to the antipathy amongst the women in his household.

“I will be gratified to arrange it, my lord,” Joan responded, seizing the chance to make her mark.

“No, no. We won’t ask that of you. I think we can give you time to recover from your long journey, my dear.” Edward looked across the Princess to me. “What do you think, Alice? A tourney?”

It was not done deliberately. Edward had little guile in him these days, but the effect was like a bolt of lightning. Joan inhaled sharply, hands clenched in her damask skirts.

“I should take up my responsibilities immediately,” she stated. “As your daughter by marriage, I should be hostess at a Court function.”

“But Alice has the knowledge and the experience,” Edward demurred. “She’s the one to ask. What do you say?”

“A Court banquet,” I replied. “To organize a tourney would take too long.”

“Then a banquet it shall be.” Edward was turning away, back to his son, content.

“I would organize a tourney!” Joan’s demand sliced through the air.

“As you will. Talk to Alice about it!”

With true male insouciance, Edward cast aside the matter to return to the discussion of military tactics with the Prince, leaving me to fight a war in his wake, but unlike the days in the Abbey, I had the skills now to avoid and maneuver. And attack. And surprisingly, I had an ally.

“It is my right, and you will not usurp it,” Joan declaimed. “Now that I am returned—”

“Of course,” I interrupted pleasantly. “I’ll tell the King you insisted. A tourney? You’ll need to speak to the Steward, the Chamberlain, the Master of Ceremonies. The Master of Horse, of course. Chester Herald if you intend to invite foreign knights—which I’m sure the King will insist on.…I’ll send them to you. I’ll send Latimer to discuss the ordering of food. The annual cleaning of the palace, which is now pending.…And where will you live? Do you intend to stay at Westminster? The accommodations are not very spacious.…”

The planes of her face tightened. “The Prince has not yet decided.…”

“Then do you wish to interview them in my rooms?”

“No.”

I spread my hands. “What do you wish?”

“Let it go, Joan.” Isabella chuckled. “Hold a banquet. It’s much less hard work in the circumstances. And let Alice do it.”

“I thought you would understand.”

“I understand that Alice is a past master at arranging these affairs.”

“Which I intend to change…”

“And I also understand that you are jealous, dear sister.”

“Jealous?” Joan’s voice climbed. “She has no right!”

“Sometimes, Joan, it is necessary to accept the inevitable.”

“That this woman rules the King?”

“Yes. And you should have the wisdom to give her credit for what she does astonishingly well.”

“I will not listen to you!” Joan stalked away to her husband’s side.

“Then you are a fool,” Isabella murmured after her, sotto voce.

“Whilst I,” I added, astounded at this turn of events, “am entirely perplexed!

“What I don’t understand,” I murmured to Isabella when the Prince and his wife had departed for a temporary stay in the royal apartments at Westminster, and I was left to consider the burden I had just been handed, “is why you would throw in your lot with me rather than with the Princess. Why not plump for a tourney and let her get on with it? Would it not please you to put my nose out of joint?”

“She’s naught but a block of lard!” Isabella announced.

“So?”

“I dislike her.”

“You dislike me!”

“True—but if truth be told, perhaps not as much as I dislike her. I always have.”

“Joan will one day be queen,” I warned. “I have no long-term prospects.”

“I know who holds the power now, and it’s not Joan.”

“I still don’t understand why you would stand at my back when Joan tried to stab it.”

Isabella frowned at me, clearly considering whether to take me into her confidence. “We’ll need a cup of wine. Or two…” Her eyes gleamed.

We sat in the solar, two conspiratorial women.

“Not a good marriage!” Isabella pronounced, and proceeded to inform me of all the facts that fair Joan had failed to impart to me about her marital affairs in those far-distant days at the Abbey.

Delicious scandal!

Joan had made a clandestine marriage, no less, at the precocious age of twelve, with Thomas Holland, who promptly abandoned his child bride to go crusading. Meanwhile Joan was forced by her family into a second marriage with William Montague, son of the Earl of Salisbury. Holland returned and for a good number of years became steward of William and Joan’s household.

“Can you imagine,” Isabella gloated in unseemly mirth, “what a convivial household that must have been! Whose bed do you think she shared?”

Then Holland petitioned the Pope for the return of his wife, and got her back, for good or ill, after an annulment of the Montague union. Holland died in the year I first met Joan.

“But Montague was still alive,” Isabella stated. “A living husband, even a dubiously annulled husband, did not make Joan good material for a royal bride. It smacks of a bigamous relationship to me! Many might consider so unorthodox a situation to be an impediment to the legitimacy of any child my brother got on Joan. Is their child Richard a bastard?” Isabella wrinkled her nose. “Hardly good news for the succession! The Virgin of Kent she was not! But my brother closed his ears and the marriage went ahead. Joan had him in her thrall.” Her lip curled. “She’s an ambitious woman.”

I could not blame her for that. “Like me?” I asked wryly.

“Exactly. That’s why she hates you.”

But Joan had every right to be ambitious. Furthermore, she would see her ambition fulfilled, and I would find myself effectively banished.

“Did you see her?” Isabella continued, oblivious to my thoughts, not mincing her words. “Joan the Fat! She still preens and smirks as if she were beautiful. And that makes it all the more incomprehensible to her—that you should have such power with the King when you are not beautiful.” Her stare was uncompromisingly critical. “Famously ugly, in fact.”

I stifled a gasp at the outrageous statement. “My thanks for the compliment.” But I think I had become resigned to it. It no longer hurt.

“It’s true.”

“The King does not think so,” I observed.

“The King is blind!”

And I thanked God for it. What a rewarding exchange of information this had been. Princess Joan would be my enemy. But Isabella…Here was a strange twist in our troubled relationship, yet it would be an unwise woman who put too much weight on any new intimacy. I raised my brows, determined to prod and pry.

“Do I understand that you will be my friend, my lady?”

The reply was as sharp as I expected. “I wouldn’t go as far as that!”

“I have never had a friend,” I added, poised to see her response.

“I’m not surprised. Your ambitions are beyond what most people can stomach.” She perused me, her eyes bright with anticipation. “But I’ll say this: It will be interesting to watch the battle royal between the pair of you. I’m not sure that I wish to wager on the outcome. It wouldn’t surprise me if the banquet never happened.”

In that moment I found myself wishing for the one thing I had never had—a friend, a woman to whom I could speak my mind with confidence and trust. A confidante. What would it be like to say what was in my heart, to bare my soul and know that it would be treated with respect? How would it be to have a woman to turn to for understanding, even for judgment? For balanced advice? I had never known it.

Was this a melancholy?

Briskly, I took myself to task. How was it possible to miss what one had never had?

I arranged a banquet to mark the return of the Prince and Princess. I was suitably extravagant in my outlay of coin to make the desired effect. The only whining voice raised in protest was drowned out by the din of the feasting courtiers.

“What did you wager on this banquet ever coming to fruition?” I asked Isabella.

“Not a silver penny! I thought the planning would shatter on the rock of Joan’s disgust.”

I smiled in pure joy. “You were wrong.”

“So I was.”

Joan was not finished with me. She had not even started. With a smooth exchange of seats as the feasting ended and the wine flowed, as the minstrels dived into their—to my ear—unmusical renderings, encouraging the Court to leap and caper with riotous levity, she leaned close, her eyes hard as jade.

“When I am Queen of England, I will destroy you for what you have done.”

I returned the gaze, a little contemptuous. “And what have I done?”

“You have entranced him! You have taken the King’s mind and twisted it! You have usurped a role that is not yours to take. Nor ever will be. You have schemed and manipulated until he sees nothing but your desires. You trick him at every step and turn.”

I was startled by her unsubtle accusations, but not perturbed. I would use her own words against her.

“As I recall, my lady, you advised me that a clever woman should always be capable of dissimulation, and mocked me when I did not comprehend.” I smiled as her face became suffused with color. “I have no need for guile or trickery. I show the King the respect he deserves. Which is more than you do, my lady. Do you think him so weak of mind that he cannot withstand the wiles of a woman?”

For a moment she stared, openmouthed. “How dare you!” She had not expected me to retaliate.

“I have brought nothing but pleasure and contentment to an aging man.”

She was quick to regroup; I had to give her that. “Is that all? I see more, Mistress Perrers! You dip your fingers into the royal Treasury. Who paid for those garments you wear? You walk these corridors as if you were queen. I’ve seen you—you wheedle and connive until you squeeze all you can of land and estates and wardships from the King. When I am queen I’ll strip you of all you’ve filched and send you packing back to that dire convent with only the clothes you stand up in. And not even those, I swear…” Her eye traveled over my new velvet sideless surcoat in royal crimson, the jeweled cauls that encased my hair. “Then who will remember Alice Perrers! And if I discover you have at any time stepped even an inch outside the law, I’ll make sure there is a cell to confine you for the rest of your earthly existence. A pillory would not be too good for such as you! Even a noose…!”

I looked across to where the Prince sat beside his father, allowing her bitterness to pass for the most part unheeded. Her accusations were not new to me. They could be heard in every quarter of the palace, with or without evidence to prove them. I had learned to live with them.

“Look!” I interrupted her with a nod of my chin. And she did, the invective drying.

“Do you truly look? And acknowledge what your eyes show you? When will you become Queen of England?”

Two men. One old, one in what should be his prime. One fading slowly as the years took their toll, the other racing to his death. Unless there was a miracle, there was not one man in the country who would wager a purse of gold on the Prince outliving his father. Edward might be fifty-nine, the Prince a mere forty-one years in comparison, but I knew who would die first.

So did Joan.

And I saw the emotion that took a grip of her features so that any remnant of good looks was transmuted into ugliness. So she loved him. Despite everything, I felt a tightening around my heart and an unexpected lurch of compassion.

“It must be hard for you to be so impotent,” I said.

But my compassion was wasted. Joan’s eyes might be bleak with despair, but she thrust aside my observation with the flat of her hand slapped down on the table. “My lord will recover with rest and good nursing. And your days will be at an end. The Prince will live—you’ll see. And my son after him. I will be Queen of England. Your present good fortune will be laid waste before your eyes.” Her hands curled into fists on the table.

“I wish you and the Prince well, my lady.”

I shrugged off Joan’s answering stare that could have pierced a shield at fifty yards. Her plans for the Prince would never come to fruition, and Joan was wretchedly, hopelessly building a bulwark against the truth. I went to stand beside Edward, enjoying the brightness of his face as he conversed with his son.

Edward’s restored vigor with the return of the Prince had its own consequences. I fell for a child at Easter. A girl, Jane, to join her sister in their little household at Pallenswick. She was not a pretty child, for she inherited my heavy brows and dark coloring, but I lavished love on her because of it, and Edward presented her with a silver bowl that I stored away with the other three. Edward had no imagination for birth gifts, but the recognition of this dark-browed daughter was magnificent.

Edward’s return to good heart proved not to be transient. Despite the Prince’s weakness and his inability to visit Court with any frequency, Edward began to turn his ear to what was happening outside the walls of Westminster, where we were settled for the term.

“Consider Parliament’s grievances,” I advised Edward.

And so he did, meeting with his council at Winchester, as in the old days. Graciously conciliatory, he listened to the endless petitions, promising redress but doing nothing to undermine his own prerogative. Regal authority sat well on him with his ermine robes. When he returned to me from the success of his meetings, his enthusiasm filled the rooms of Westminster with a blast of energy. “I will rebuild our defenses,” he said. “And then we will go to war again. I will restore Gascony to English hands. Gaunt will help me.…”

“You will do all that is necessary,” I assured him.

His smile was almost a youthful grin. “I feel the years falling from my shoulders.”

We went hunting, the best sign of Edward’s renewed spirits.

Gaunt acknowledged his father’s initiative with a bow in my direction. “My thanks.”

“It is my pleasure, my lord.”

I needed no more. Edward was himself again.

Beware fickle fate! Never turn your back on her. If you do, she will sink her teeth into your unprotected heel. If there is to be any maxim applied to the conceit of my life, that will be the touchstone. My spirits, one minute soaring as high as Wykeham’s new towers at Windsor, in the next collapsed as if the foundations had been fouled by a detail of zealous sappers. Edward sat in stunned silence, his knuckles white as his hands gripped and kneaded the arms of his great chair. I stood at his side, even going so far as to touch his shoulder to remind him of my presence. I don’t think he felt it. His mind, his inner vision, was across the sea with this ultimate, irreconcilable loss. All my hopes, all Edward’s optimism, were destroyed in one piece of news from a royal courier. The King aged before my eyes.

“This date will be engraved on my heart,” he murmured, his voice broken with grief.

I would have saved Edward from knowledge of the devastation, but how could I? It was his ultimate responsibility. Unaware of the latent strength in his hands, seeing nothing but the bloody massacre that had been recounted, he gripped my fingers as if to draw the lifeblood from them. And there was nothing I could say to him to soften the agony.

The English fleet was lost. All of it. Completely and utterly destroyed when pounced on by a Castilian fleet, in opportunistic alliance with France, in the seas off La Rochelle. Our ships were swept by fire. Terrified horses stampeded, breaking apart the wooden vessels that contained them. The English commanders were captured.

It was a terrible scene of wanton death and carnage.

Edward gazed at the wall before him, seeing nothing but the destruction of his life’s work in this, his first major military defeat in his long reign. He said not one word, even as he sat through the night staring into the flames of the fire he insisted on having lit in his room despite the heat of the summer. I sat with him. I feared for his reason through those long hours. The next morning, as light filtered into the room, he stood.

“Edward…you haven’t slept. Let me…”

His words startled me.

“I’ll have my revenge,” he said, low and even. “I’ll lead the greatest army England has ever seen into France. I’ll fight to take back all I have lost. I’ll not return home until it is done.”

But it was a charade laid bare by the transparency of his skin pulled tight over spare cheekbones, by the trembling in his hands.

Should I have tried to dissuade him? Should Gaunt? We did not. There was about Edward a hardness that I recognized and knew I could not fight against. He might be aging, but he was a lion still and needed to prove to himself and to England that he was a king worthy of his crown and people’s loyalty. I let him be.

The preparations were magnificent, the army vast as, flanked by Gaunt and even the Prince, who was roused by the crisis of the moment, the whole force embarked on the Thames with appropriate fuss and splendor. Pride filled my heart, for a short time sweeping away my doubts as I watched from the shore. Edward stood at the forefront in gilded armor and helm, his heraldic lions resplendent above him as the war banners whipped in the wind: a sight to stir the senses. I had already made my farewell. Now I must leave him to God’s grace and pray for his success.

“I’ll die on French soil before I allow them to take what is my inheritance!” he had sworn as he boarded his flagship, Grace de Dieu.

It frightened me for him to tempt fate in such a manner. By the Virgin! My fears were well-founded.

Three weeks later, the vessels had not stirred from port, contrary winds battering Sandwich and the brave plan into pieces. In Gascony, our beleaguered town of La Rochelle fell to the French. In utter despair, Edward called off the campaign. It was a sad, hopeless old man who returned to London to my waiting arms, and I could offer him no solace.

The humiliation broke Edward. His world fell apart around him. Philippa’s death had wounded him sorely, but the failure in war broke him beyond repair. And during the following months with Edward sitting helpless in London? Not one major battle to claw back English advantage, but any number of minor skirmishes, each English-held castle and town coming under attack. Every English defense was obliterated. By the end of it, Edward’s Gascon territory was even smaller than that bequeathed to him by his father.

All his life’s work destroyed.

Despairing, Edward galloped into a truce signed at Bruges to cease hostilities. If England was humbled, Edward was trampled underfoot. He had lost everything, a thing that his mind found it difficult to comprehend. He tired quickly, losing the thread of conversations in the middle of a thought. Sometimes he fell into a silence from which he could not be roused. Sometimes he did not recognize me.