The King's Concubine

Chapter Eleven

Sir William de Windsor! Back in England! Back within my orbit!

He might have thought it a matter of pure chance that I was crossing the vast space of the Great Hall at Westminster when he arrived, but I could have put him right if I had chosen to do so. I knew exactly when he dismounted from his mud-spattered mount, dispatched his horses, baggage, and escort to the stabling, exactly the moment when his foot struck the first of the steps into the great entrance porch.

I stood in the shadows cast by a pillar to catch a glimpse of him, the first for nigh on four years. I had been expecting him, for before the debacle of the English fleet off La Rochelle, when Edward had turned his mind to England’s precarious hold on Gascony, he had also picked up the rumors emanating from Ireland.

It was not good news. It never was. The usual trail of accusations of inefficiency, bribery, corruption, and backstabbing in the highest circles. Which put Windsor directly in the firing line, for no one doubted that the power was in Windsor’s hands rather than in the hapless Desmond’s. Windsor had no warning from me. Had I not promised to apprise him of royal policy toward Ireland? The last time I had written was to tell him that there was no policy. By the time I knew of Edward’s renewed interest, events had overtaken me. In an unusual burst of anger, and a flash of the old independence, Edward had ordered Sir William to get himself to London on the next available ship and deliver an explanation in person.

When he would come, whether he would come, was a matter for conjecture. It was easy enough to claim the message lost en route. But I thought he would obey the summons. Windsor was not a man to hide from notoriety. And so I had been watching for his arrival, unsettled by the range of emotions that was stirred up in me. Some trepidation, some anticipation, a good deal of mistrust. And more than a pinch of pleasure.

And here he was. My first impression—more than an impression, more a certainty—was that Windsor was not in a good mood. I would not have expected otherwise, given the tone of the royal demand. Crossing the threshold, he looked as if he had been thrust into the hall by a blast from a raging storm. His clothes were wet and mud-spattered; a hint of stiffness in his muscles told of long days of travel. Driven, furiously engaged with the direction of his thoughts, as if the storm had entered his brain, he marched forward. I thought he would stride straight past me. Did he even see me?

I waited until he drew level, even two steps beyond, picking apart my own wayward reaction to this man as my heart beat a little more quickly, my mind bounding ahead to the prospect of his caustic observations. Unexpectedly my lips warmed. That final kiss had been compelling.

If I did not speak now, he would be gone.…

“Sir William…”

He lurched to a halt, wheeled ’round, eyes fierce as if he expected an enemy to leap from concealment. Then he gave a sharp, impatient exhalation of breath.

“Mistress Perrers.”

He made a scratchy bow, irritable beyond words, to which I responded with an equally brief curtsy. Braveheart, older but no wiser, pushed hard against my legs to give herself courage.

“Is that all you have to say?” I asked sweetly.

His eyes narrowed. “What do you want me to say? I’m back. And not best pleased.”

An understatement, I realized, seeing his expression clearly for the first time. His face was set hard, engraved with a faint cobweb of lines by eye and mouth that were new since I had last seen him. His tight-lipped mouth and flared nostrils spoke of temper. His whole body was, in fact, an essay in contained fury, with all the allure of a shard of flint. But my heart shifted at the proximity of his lean frame and sardonic features. When he snatched his hat from his head in a gesture of furious impatience, his hair clung, sleek as moleskin from rain and sweat, against his skull. The eyes that were dark and hostile on mine as he waited for me to speak were no darker than his dangerous and volatile mood. And still I felt that uncomfortable thrill of attraction, new to me, but frighteningly appealing.

I set myself to speak of immediate affairs. Indeed there would be no point in doing otherwise, since the man was too caught up in the moment to think beyond his grievances.

“I hope you’ve come prepared to answer for your actions in Ireland, Sir William.”

“I might have hoped you’d have warned me, mistress,” he snapped back.

“And I would.” I tilted my chin a little. I did not appreciate his criticism. “It was too late. The King’s summons would have reached you before any warning of mine. Besides, would it have made any difference?”

He shifted his shoulders irritably. “So he’s angry.”

“He’s not pleased.”

“I thought the King was fading…” he growled. “I had hoped the Prince might have spoken for me.”

“The Prince is ill.”

“I had heard.…” Windsor sighed, his thoughts momentarily diverted. “And God knows I’m sorry for it. Once, we were close enough, fighting side by side, campaigning together—twenty years ago now.” His frown deepened as he stared down at his fist clenched on his ill-used cap. “We were both young and loved the soldiering life. He was the best commander I ever knew. And now…”

“Now those days are gone; the Prince is dying.”

“Is he, now? It raises a question over the succession.”

“It does. A question where more than one has an interest.”

“The child is too young…five years?”

I sighed silently. Politics and policy. Court intrigue. This was not what I wanted to talk of when my heart was beating and my blood racing: that same strange reaction to this man whose principles were questionable, whose motives were driven primarily by personal ambition, and whose actions did not bear close scrutiny. I realized that a silence had fallen between us, and that for the first time Windsor was concentrating on me.

“You look well,” he announced brusquely.

“I am.”

“I see my wolfhound fulfills her role.”

“Not to any degree.” I dug my fingers into the rough hair at Braveheart’s neck, causing her to whine in delight. “She needs my company to make her feel brave, and even then a mouse would frighten her. Your choice was not a good one, Sir William.”

“And the blade?”

“I have had no occasion to use it, unless it be to cut my meat.”

“For which it was not intended!” For the first time his eye glittered with more than ill humor. “Tell me that you keep it in your bodice.”

“I’ll tell you no such thing.”

I waited for a provocative reply, but he surprised me.

“I hear you’ve made a reputation for avarice. Your hold on power has grown apace since I saw you last. I commend you.”

It hurt a little. I did not expect that from him. “And I hear that you are much disliked by those whom you rule.” I would give as good as I got.

“I also hear that you are making a name for yourself acquiring rights over property by fraud.”

Acquiring property? He would know, of course. It was no secret—but fraud? Oh, he was in a vicious mood. I raised my chin.

“Fraud? That’s unproven! My agent, Greseley, is a man of high principle!” My response was sharp, for I would defend my business dealings until my last breath. “If you refer to the fact that I have just acquired the manor of Compton Murdak with some difficulty, then that is so. Are you so interested? Then let me tell you. I sued John Straunge for poaching in my new rabbit warren—did you hear of that too? He was as guilty as hell and deserved the fine. His wife wore a rabbit-skin hood.” I smiled at the memory. “I sat with the judges in the case and pointed it out to them. They were not pleased at my interference, but they ruled in my favor. How could they not? If that is fraud, then I am guilty.” I grew solemn. “I hear that you are guilty of exploitation and bribery.”

It was like setting a match to dry timber.

“God help me! Of course I am. Which governor of Ireland has never been guilty of bribery?” His jaw visibly clenched. “When will he see me?”

His admission shocked me. “I don’t know.”

“Then I’d better find someone who does.”

“There is no one.” I had not done with him yet. “Who knows but the King himself?”

His stare became ferocious. “The longer Ireland is without a head, the sooner it will descend into revolt and bloodshed. All my work undone in the time it takes for Edward to decide that he has no one, other than me, to take on the task.”

And without another word or even a gesture of respect, he spun on his heel, damp cloak billowing and shedding pieces of twig and leaf, and marched off. I watched him go. I was sorry, despite his foul mood. I trusted him as little as I trusted Gaunt, but there was a visceral connection between us. I might have wished there were not, but so it was. I waited until he reached the staircase at the end of the Hall. I raised my voice.

“Windsor.”

He turned but did not reply. Even from a distance I could tell that his humor had not softened to any degree. There he stood in the shadow, the light from a flickering torch picking out the edge of his cloak, the glint of the metal at his side. A man of shadows, a man of unplumbed depths. It would be a brave woman who claimed to know him.

“I can find out for you,” I suggested.

“Then do so. Why stand there wasting time?”

Once, four years ago, he had marched back to finish a conversation, apologizing for his rude manner. Now he stood and waited as if I might approach him. I did not. A neat little stalemate of our joint making.

“I do not answer to your beck and call, Sir William.” My reply echoed in the vast space.

Windsor bowed low, the gesture dripping with malice. “Sweet Alice, sweeter than ever. Will you be there when Edward tears my morals to shreds and damns my actions to hell and back?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“And will you speak out for me?”

“I will not. But neither will I condemn you until I’ve heard the evidence.”

“So you are not my enemy?”

“Did I ever say I was?”

A hard crack of a laugh was his only reply. At least I had made him laugh. He ran up the stairs, every action speaking of annoyance but with perhaps a lessening of the anger. Until at the head of the stair he halted and looked down to where I still stood below.

“Were you deliberately waiting for me?”

“Certainly not!”

The bow, the flourish of his cap, suggested that he did not believe me for a moment. I watched him disappear through the archway.

What now? I was not satisfied, not content to leave matters as they were. Never had I felt this need to be close to a man of the Court. Yes—through necessity, through courting their regard, through a need to win their support in a bid to protect Edward. But this? Windsor’s friendship—his regard—would bring me no good. And yet still I wanted it.

I considered as the distant sound of his boot heels died away. I did trust him more than I trusted Gaunt. And then I pushed him aside, unable to make sense of my troubled thoughts. Time would tell. And I would be there when Edward dissected his morals and his character. And no, I would not condemn him until I had heard his excuses.

Windsor’s presence continued to nibble at my consciousness. Nibble? Snap, rather. Like a kitchen cat pouncing on a well-fed and unwary rat.

Edward ordered Windsor to present himself one hour before noon on the following day, with no prompting from me. The King was lucid, furious. It was, I thought, very much a repetition of his interview with Lionel, without the close redeeming relationship of father to son. In the end Edward had forgiven Lionel. Here there was no softness, accusation following on accusation. Edward was angry and seethingly forthright: There was no impediment to his memory or his powers of speech that day.

Windsor proved to be equally uninhibited beneath the gloss of respect.

As I had intended, I sat beside Edward, fascinated at the play of will between the two men, impressed by Edward’s grasp of events, anxious that Windsor would not overstep the mark. Why was I anxious? Why should I care? I did not know. But I did.

Edward’s litany of crimes against his governor of Ireland rolled on and on.

“Bloody mismanagement…inglorious culpability…disgraceful self-interest…appalling fiscal double-dealing.”

Windsor withstood it all with a dour expression, feet planted, arms at his sides. I did not think his features had relaxed for one minute since his arrival the previous day.

Was he guilty? Despite his callous acceptance of my initial accusation, I had no idea. He argued his case with superb ease, not once hesitating. Yes, he had taxed heavily. Yes, he had used the law to support English power. Yes, he had empowered the Anglo-Irish at the expense of the native Irish—to do otherwise would have been political suicide. Was not the revenue needed to finance English troops to force the Irish rebels to keep their heads down? If that amounted to extortion and discreditable taxation, then he would accept it. In Ireland it was called achieving peace. And he would defy anyone to instigate peace in that godforsaken tribal, war-torn province by any other means than threats and bribery.

Edward was not impressed. “And the royal grant made for such purposes?”

“A grant I thank you for, Sire.” At least Windsor tried to be conciliatory. “But that was spent long ago. I am now on my own and have to take what measures I can.”

“I don’t like your methods, and I don’t like the rumble of dissatisfaction I hear.”

“When is there not dissatisfaction, Sire?”

“You are very voluble in defense of your innocence.”

How would he answer that? I waited, my heart thudding against my ribs.

His eyes never flinched from Edward’s face. “I would never claim innocence, Sire. A good politician can’t afford to be naive. Pragmatism is a far more valuable commodity, as you yourself will be aware. And who knows what’s happening while my back is turned?”

“They don’t want you back,” Edward accused.

Windsor shook his head, in no manner discomfited. “Of course they don’t. They want someone without experience, to mold and turn to their own will. I am not popular, but I hold to English policy as best I can with the tools I have. A weaker man would have the Irish lords singing his praises and licking the toes of his boots, all while they are sliding Irish gold into their own pockets.”

“They want me to send the young Earl of March,” Edward announced. “At least I know he’s honest.”

“I rest my case, Sire. Doubtless an able youth, but with neither experience nor years to his advantage…” Windsor left the thought hanging, his opinion clear.

“He is husband to my granddaughter!”

Edward was tiring. He might wish to champion the cause of young Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March, wed to his granddaughter Philippa, but I could see the tension beginning to build in him, wave upon wave, as weakness crept over his mind and body. It was time to end this before his inevitable humiliation, I decided. Time to end it for Windsor too. I leaned across with a hand on Edward’s sleeve.

“How old is the young Earl, my lord?” I murmured.

“I think…” A frightening vagueness clouded his eyes.

“I doubt he has more than twenty-one years under his belt.” I knew he hadn’t.

“But he is my granddaughter’s husband.…” Edward clung to the single fact of which he was certain in the terrible mist that engulfed his mind, his voice growing harsh, querulous.

“And one day he will serve you well with utmost loyalty,” I agreed. “But it is an appallingly difficult province for so young a man.”

Edward looked at me. “Do you think?”

“There may be much in what Sir William says.…”

“No!” he huffed, but with agonizing uncertainty.

I had planted the seed. I looked at Windsor, willing him to a mood of diplomacy, and for the first time in the audience he returned my gaze. Then he bowed to Edward.

“Do I return to Ireland, Sire? To continue your work to hold the province? Until the Earl of March is fit to assume the role?”

It was impeccably done.

“I’ll consider your guilt first. Until then you’ll stay here under my eye.”

It was not an out-and-out refusal, but I doubted Windsor accepted it in that light. He bowed again and stalked out. I might as well not have been there.

“Come,” I said to Edward, helping him from his chair. “You will rest. Then we will talk of it—and you will come to a wise decision—as you always do.”

“Yes.” He leaned heavily on my arm, almost beyond speech. “We will talk of it.…”

So Windsor, against his wishes, was restored to the complex round of Court life, where all was seen and gossiped about, and it was increasingly difficult to keep Edward’s piteous decline from public gaze. For the first week I saw nothing of Windsor. Edward languished and Windsor kept his head down. No decision was made about the future of Ireland. How did Windsor spend his time? When last at Court he had sought me out. Now he did not. When Edward was strong enough to dine in public with a good semblance of normality, Windsor was not present. After some discreet questioning I discovered that he visited with the Prince at Kennington.

I wished him well of that visit. I thought there would be little satisfaction for him.

And then he was back, prowling the length and breadth of one of Edward’s antechambers, a black scowl on his face, a number of scrolls tucked under his arm. At least the scowl lifted when he saw me emerge from the private apartments. He loped across as I closed the door at my back. He even managed to smile, though there was no lightness in him. His mood gave me an urge to shock him out of his self-engrossment—except that I could think of no way of doing it. Nor did I have the energy. Edward had been morose and demanding. If there had been other courtiers waiting in the antechamber, I might even have avoided Windsor’s harsh, brooding figure. As it was…

“The King has not decided?” he demanded without greeting.

“No.”

“Will he never make a decision?”

I sighed, a weary hopelessness settling on me. “In his own good time. But you know that. You must be patient, Sir William. Are you waiting for me?”

“Certainly not.” He flashed a wolfish grin as he deliberately repeated my previous denial.

Tit for tat! I laughed softly, some of my weariness dispelled. “What are you doing to pass the time?” We were close enough that I tapped my fingers against the documents.

“Buying property.”

“In Ireland?” I was surprised.

“In England. In Essex, primarily.” I was even more surprised, since his family estates were far to the north.

“Why?”

“Against hard times. Like you. For when we can no longer depend on royal patronage.”

He looked at me, as if weighing up a thought that had entered his head. Or perhaps it had been there for some time.

“What is it?” I asked, suspicious.

“I have a proposition, Mistress Perrers.”

I felt a little tingle in my blood, a faint warmth that dispelled the smothering lethargy, the product of sleepless nights.

“A proposition?” I turned to go, feigning disinterest. “Now, what would that be? You’ve had little enough to say to me in the past sennight.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“And so? Now that you are no longer busy?”

Again, for a long moment he studied me, then gave a decisive nod. “Let us find a little corner where the hundreds of courtier ears in this place will not flap. It’s like a beehive, a constant buzz of rumor and scandal.”

He escorted me—not that I was unwilling, for had he not stirred my curiosity?—into a chamber used by the scribes and men of law, angling me between desks and stools into a corner where we could sit. There were no courtiers here. The young scribes continued to dip and scratch and scribble without interest in us. Idly I picked up a document from a box on the floor and pretended to be engrossed in it. A bill of sale of two dozen coneys. Presumably we’d eaten them in the last rabbit pottage.

Windsor came straight to the point. “I think we could make a killing.”

We? I said nothing, fanning myself with the coney document.

He grinned. “You give nothing away, do you? A killing of a financial nature.”

I tapped my foot against the base of the box.

“Would you care to throw in your lot with me on the purchase of some excellent little manors?”

A proposition indeed. My interest was snared like one of the unfortunate rabbits—that he would desire someone to join in partnership with him—and that he would look to me. Playing for time, I smoothed out the roll of parchment in my hands as if the coneys were of vast importance.

“And why would I do that?”

“Against the hard times,” he repeated. “They’ll be harder for you than for me.” And he began to juggle with two lumps of red sealing wax that he’d swept up from a nearby desk, adding a third and then a fourth with amazing dexterity.

“Perhaps.” My eye might be caught by the clever manipulation of the wax, but my mind was working furiously. Would they be harder for me? I expected he was right. It was always harder for a woman alone. I slid my eye from the wax to the sharp stare turned on me. “Why invite me to share in your project?”

“You have an interest in purchasing land.” The wax, unheeded, fell to the floor with a soft clatter. “You have contacts. I expect you have access to funds. You have an able agent.…Need I say more?”

It was an impressive tally, for which I was justifiably proud. “What do you have?” I demanded.

“Hardheaded business acumen.” He was not short of arrogance.

“Do I not have that also?”

“Amazingly, yes, but…”

“Don’t say it! Amazingly for a woman!”

“Then I won’t.” His mouth twitched. “What do you think?”

I waved the forgotten document to and fro, giving it some thought.

“Don’t you trust me?”

“No.”

He laughed. “So what’s your answer? Is that no, too?”

“My answer is…” And because I did not know my own mind: “Why do I need you? I have acquired land perfectly adequately without you.”

“Sometimes you need a man to push the negotiation forward.”

“I have any number of men who are ready to work with me, for our joint benefit.”

“Do you?” He looked surprised.

So I allowed myself to crow a little. “Did you not know? In the last handful of years I have purchased any number of manors through the offices of a little cabal of most trusted men. I use them as feoffees who—Master William Greseley in particular—undertake negotiations in my name. It is a perfect arrangement for a femme sole.”

“Where did you learn that?”

“A long time ago—a different life.” I remembered standing outside Janyn Perrers’s room, my bride gift clutched in my hand. I smiled a little. How far I had come. Then I dragged my mind back to the mercurial man who sat before me, leaning forward, the wax rescued from the floor and being tossed irritatingly from hand to hand. “If I do not help myself, who will?”

“Clever!” Windsor’s eyes narrowed as he considered what I had achieved. “I admit your success. Then tell me, a mere curious man, how many manors have you actually snatched up?” I shook my head. I would not say, which he acknowledged readily enough. “I’ll find out one day! I still say you need an astute man, who has a more personal view of your future.”

“And you are he.”

He bowed.

“Ah, but I think my little cabal of moneyed men have a very personal commitment to my success. If I fall under attack, so will they, so they will defend me to the death. I find them hardworking and unswervingly loyal. And so my answer is, Sir William—no. You might need me, but I do not need you.”

“Then our conversation is at an end, Mistress Perrers.”

Abruptly, he tossed the wax on the desk and left me to the company of the incurious clerks. I had surprised him with my refusal, and he did not like it.

For the whole of the next week he kept his damnable distance from me!

During that time I considered Windsor’s offer. I had many hours. The King was full of lassitude, his mind sluggish. When awake, Edward felt an urge to confess his sins and so spent many hours on his knees in the chapel. Sometimes he stood alone on the castle walls, looking abstractedly out toward France. Since I was not in demand, my thoughts turned inward to the unexpected proposal.

There was much to recommend it in spite of my cavalier rejection. Was it not always easier for a man than for a woman to indulge in binding agreements with those with land to sell or lease? Yes, I used Greseley, but would it not be more advantageous to have an equal partner, a man with some status and authority whose interest was as strong as mine? A woman was considered an easy target. I might have the King’s ear, but not everyone was willing to accept my jurisdiction.

Yes, I had won my case over that amazingly unattractive rabbit cloak, but my mind swerved to a more recent clash with the local population near my manor of Finningley, a valuable little property in Nottinghamshire. My manor no longer! For what had the local mob done? Only attacked and stolen my cattle. And not only that: My crops were destroyed, my men and servants imprisoned until they took oaths to renege on their oath of fealty to me. Which they did, the words tripping over their tongues in their desire to obey the vindictive rogues with hard words and harder fists who had set upon them.

Now, if I were in partnership with Windsor…would it be to my advantage? I imagined him more than capable in negotiation. But would I wish to work with one such as William de Windsor? Do you trust me? he had asked. No! I had replied. And yet I thought it would be exhilarating to work in tandem with such a man. I imagined him taking a select group of armed men to sway the decision of the local population, and ensure that Finningley remained my property.

On the other hand…

Holy Virgin! He would make me take the initiative here! If I kept my distance, he would find someone else to work in partnership in his ventures.

So must I agree to work hand in glove with him? A bold woman might be persuaded to accept a glove from Windsor. A smile touched my mouth. I would do it. But I would take him by surprise, on my own terms. I would put him at a disadvantage, and enjoy every minute of it.

I wrote two fast notes, much with the same purpose: one to Master Greseley, one to Windsor. The response from both was prompt. I set myself, with some careful arrangements, to luxuriate in the outcome.

I was always fond of the drama of a mummers’ play.

The whole occasion had a delicious frisson about it. I chose late afternoon, for obvious reasons, when the light in the audience chamber would have dimmed, and I had no torches lit. I took my place on Edward’s throne, clad in dark skirts and veil, Greseley at my side. Only when I was ready did I raise my hand for the attendant at the door to admit Windsor, who was waiting in the antechamber. I heard his words.

“You will be seen now, my lord.”

And I recalled my little note. It was not malicious, only playful. I had hoped Windsor would appreciate it.

His Majesty has made a decision relating to the governorship of Ireland. You will be informed in the Paneled Chamber at four hours after noon.

He was very prompt. He strode in. Halted. Bowed, a keen eye to protocol.

“You may approach,” the attendant advised before closing the door behind him.

So we were alone, the three of us, as Windsor advanced. He had dressed with impeccable neatness in dark hose and close-fitting cotehardie in black and green damask, cinched with a jeweled girdle on his hips. It was very fashionable—even to a parti-colored shoulder cape and gold-edged baldric, although he had abjured the extravagant long toes for good-quality leather boots. He was out to make a good impression; he would not lose this position through inattention to detail. He was, I recognized anew, a man who could play whatever role he set himself.

The thought shivered momentarily along my spine, but I sat perfectly still.

When did he realize it was not the King who occupied the royal throne?

When he was halfway down the length of the room. I saw the moment, the second look, the recognition. To his credit there was barely a hitch in his step. He continued until he stood just below the dais and bowed again with the same depth of respect, the feathers of his cap sweeping the floor. Straightening, he looked up at me. His eyes were somber in the shadowed light, but they gleamed when I motioned to Greseley to light the bracket behind me. And there we were, a dramatic little scene in a pool of golden illumination.

“Sir William. How good of you to come.”

“Isn’t it? I could not resist the invitation.”

“And so promptly.”

“I dare do no other. Queen Alice, is it?”

I would not smile! “I think that is treason, my lord.”

“I’m sure it is. As is impersonating royalty.”

“Impersonation? I wear no crown.”

“Forgive me! Is that not the throne that you are occupying?”

“Where would you have me sit, sir? On the floor?”

“Many would.…”

“I make no claims to royal authority, Sir William.”

“Impressive, mistress. You may not claim it, but…”

My whole body felt alive, my breath quick and shallow. This was exhilarating. And beneath the sharp cut and thrust, did we not understand each other very well? I stilled my tongue; I made him ask. And he did.

“You have news for me?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“I will do it.”

“Do what?” And I saw the fingers of his right hand spread slowly against his thigh. So it did matter to him, as I had thought.

“I will become your associate in buying land. This is my agent, Master Greseley.” Greseley bowed. “He deals with many of my ventures and handles the finances.”

Windsor’s brows snapped together. “Why have you changed your mind?”

“Sometimes it is necessary to work through a second party. I have decided that I will work with you.”

He made no reply while his regard was fixed on my face.

“It is also,” I suggested smoothly, “a woman’s privilege to change her mind.” I rose to my feet, considered remaining above him, then stepped down from the dais, so that we were all on equal footing. “I trust your offer is still open? If not, then Master Greseley and I will continue to purchase land in the same efficient manner that we have always done. But if you are still of a mind, Sir William…”

“I am.” Was his reply not quite as smooth as was his wont?

“What do you think, Master Greseley?”

“I see advantages, mistress,” he replied in his undemonstrative way, as if nothing could surprise him.

“So it is done,” Windsor observed.

“So it is,” I agreed.

We clasped hands, the three of us.

“Are we business associates, then, Sir William?”

“So it seems. I rarely enjoy being wrong-stepped by anyone, much less by a woman. But on this occasion…I believe it will be a lucrative venture.”

Not only did he clasp my hand but he kissed it.

* * *

My carefully staged little drama had taken him by surprise. To the advantage of both of us, of course. But my planning was nothing to what Windsor achieved next, to all but shake me out of my wits. What’s more, it took no staging on his part, merely a diabolical cunning and an outrageous confidence.

I suppose he thought I deserved it. And perhaps I did.

Meanwhile, as my new associate planned his campaign against me, we celebrated our first joint step into property with a cup of wine. It was a fine Bordeaux, to toast the acquisition of the land, rents, and services of the equally fine manor of Northbrokes in Middlesex. Greseley was lugubrious but satisfied. I was full of delight at our smooth purchase. Windsor was not. Although he worked hard to keep his frustrations smothered beneath a brittle jubilation, as we lifted our cups in mutual appreciation, his mood was somber.

“Can you not get the King to make a decision on Ireland?” he asked when Greseley had left us.

“Edward is not capable of deciding what he will eat to break his fast. You must be patient.”

“It is not in my nature.”

As I knew. I would miss him when he was gone.

I made an error. Or perhaps it was not an error, because it was an outcome I desired, but it turned out to be a dangerous choice on my part. Where had my sense of clear judgment gone? Buried under my successful enterprise with William de Windsor, I expect, thrust aside by my delight in Edward’s return to health. We were at Woodstock, where the hunting was good and Edward, rallying as he often did in new surroundings, was renewed in body and spirit. Or perhaps I was driven by my lamentable ambition to own a king’s ransom in fine jewels. Now, that I cannot deny.

Why was I incapable of seeing the consequences of my request to Edward? I had stepped carefully all my life, and yet here I leaped into a morass that would ultimately drag me down. And what was it that caused the conflagration? Philippa’s jewels. Some inherited, some gifts, some brought with her to England all those years ago. All magnificent.

“They’re yours.” Edward placed them on the bed in the room he had had constructed with such love for Philippa, and which I now occupied. With the jewels was a letter in his own hand.

…we give and concede to our beloved Alice Perrers, late damsel of the chamber of our most dear consort Philippa, now dead, that to her heirs and executors all the jewels, goods, and chattels that the said Queen left in the hands of Euphemia, wife to Sir Walter de Hasleworth, and the said Euphemia is to deliver them to the said Alice on the receipt of this command.…

Philippa’s jewels. What woman would not want them? They took my breath as I lifted a string of rubies, a collar set with sapphires, a heavy emerald ring, and allowed them to fall back to join their glittering brethren in the metal-bound coffer. Edward had given them to me.

But on whose initiative?

On mine, for my sins. I had asked for them. Since Philippa’s death they had never seen the light of day, but languished in safekeeping with one of the senior ladies of Philippa’s household. And so I had asked for them, and Edward, in his magnificent generosity, had arranged it. Legally and officially they were now mine. And with this simple acquisition of Philippa’s jewelery, I helped to dig my own grave. Thoughtlessness on my part. Greed? I did not think so. They ought to be worn—and who better than the King’s Concubine?

I wore the sapphire collar when the court met for supper.

It was, of course, immediately recognizable, and the whispers began to circulate, between the minced meatballs in jelly and Edward’s favorite dish of salmon in rich cream sauce, damning me for my impertinence. Did I not see the eyes slide disbelievingly over the wealth that gleamed on my bosom? And the murmurs multiplied when next morning I pinned a ruby brooch to my mantle. Disgraceful avarice and greed, they said. The jewels were not mine to take. The King must be besotted or bewitched, one as bad as the other, to give his wife’s jewels to his whore. If they were to be worn, was it not more fitting for them to be seen around the neck of Isabella or even Princess Joan? Certainly not adorning the neck of Alice Perrers. Had Edward lost his wits entirely?

I could answer my critics. Not that I ever did—why would I? Any reasoning of mine would be rejected out of hand. But of what use was it for such glorious jewels to be shut in a box in a dusty cellar in the home of Lady Euphemia? Far better for them to be worn and enjoyed. It was not as if I were wearing the royal regalia, was it? If Philippa had wished them to be worn by Isabella or Joan, she would have willed them. She did not. Did she will them to me? She did not do that either, but I did not think she would object to seeing them on my person. And I think, truth to tell, she would have seen the humor in it.

Did I have an eye to the future? Of course I did. As Edward’s life-force failed, my preparations for an uncertain future quickened. Greseley might decry gemstones against the lasting value of land, but both were of equal value to me—and what woman could resist a collar of sapphires and pearls? Besides, I could not afford to be complacent. And Edward knew it too, although we did not speak of it beyond his solemn assertion: “At least they’ll put cloth on your back, Alice, and bread in your mouth when I’m not here to provide them.”

Oh, yes. I could make every excuse, but I never did. All I knew was that Edward loved to see me wearing them, and to me that, and my own pleasure, were reasons enough to flaunt them before the censorious Court.

“They become you as well as they became Philippa.” The smile that almost refused to come to Edward’s mouth these days, so weak were his muscles, was very gentle.

“I am not Philippa, my lord.” I was equally gentle. Some days I was not sure that he could even distinguish between us. But on that day he did.

“I know that very well. You are Alice and you are my beloved.”

In response to my wearing a particularly fine emerald ring that Philippa had much loved, and a gold-linked belt set with equally fine stones, Princess Joan’s descent on Woodstock was immediate and vicious. Someone had ensured that the gossip had reached her. “They’re Philippa’s!” She launched into her invective before the door to my parlor was closed. “By what right do you dare to even touch them, much less wear them!”

On that occasion I was wearing rubies. Well, she would notice those that adorned my hood, as large as cherrystones, wouldn’t she? They were difficult to overlook. At least we were private when Joan grabbed my wrist for her inspection. “I don’t believe it!” She twisted my arm so that the light glittered on the ring and the bloodred clasp around my wrist. “Did you steal them?”

I raised my brows. I would not answer such an accusation.

“Did you?” Joan was always obtuse. “I know you did. It’s the only way you would get your thieving hands on them! They’re the Queen’s. They’re not yours to wear.”

“Oh, I think they are.” My gaze never wavered beneath hers, and at last gave her pause.

“God’s Blood! He gave them to you!”

“Of course he did.”

“What did you have to do to get them from him? No—don’t tell me! I might vomit!”

Without doubt I should have been more circumspect in my reply. “Am I not worthy of them?” I asked, in retrospect not circumspect at all.

“By God, you are not.”

“By God, I am.”

She dropped her hold, retreating in obvious disgust, lips drawn back from her neat teeth. But I followed her. I was no minion to be put in my place. And I was weary of baseless accusations.

“If we are talking of worth and payment here, then consider this, my lady: How many nights have I sat beside the King when he is sleepless? How many nights have I talked or read to keep the nightmares at bay? How many days have I devoted to the melancholy that drags him down?” I pushed on to make her think beyond her prejudices, to make her acknowledge me and what I had achieved. “You know what it is like when a strong man suffers. He is demanding, and yet inconsolable in his weakness. It is not easy for a woman to stand buffer against the horrors that attack him. You know this from your own experience.”

For a moment I saw her hesitate. She understood what I meant. But not for long.

“The Prince is my husband! It is my right and my duty to stand with him! You have no right!”

Holy Mother! Any prudence I might have melted under Joan’s scorn. “And the King is my lover,” I rejoined. “He gave me Philippa’s jewels and I will value them. I will wear them and enjoy them.”

“You wear them like a slut—shamelessly, blatantly—a Court harlot who has demanded jewels for her body.”

But I did not think I was. These were not gifts given in a spirit of payment for services rendered; the jewels had been given out of love. Yet I was without redress. My reputation was made and I must live with it, but sometimes it was very hard to accept the consequences. Perhaps Joan’s savage attack wounded me after all. And that was why I said the unforgivable.

“I had no need to demand, my lady. The King obviously considers gold and gems suitable payment for my superior skills in the bedchamber.”

“Whore!” She stormed from the room.

Joan never forgave me, and I was to pay a high price for my heedlessness, higher than I could have dreamed possible, even though I made an attempt at conciliation, for Edward’s sake. I was not entirely heartless, you understand. Unfortunately my good intentions made matters worse.

Edward decided to visit the Prince at Kennington; I accompanied him with serious intent. Edward, I decided, deserved some peace in his household. War between his mistress and his daughter-in-law—both of us no better than two screeching, scratching cats—should be avoided. Within minutes, King and Prince were deep in discussion of the state of the present truce with France, and I, my feet on a path toward what I suspected would be a lost cause, was shown by the steward into Joan’s solar.

She sat at her embroidery, by her side on the floor her young son, turning the illuminated pages of a book. A charming boy with fair hair and round cheeks, Richard leaped to his feet and bowed with quaint grace.

I curtsied. “My lord. My lady.” I would be courteous.

Joan remained seated with disdain in her eyes. “Mistress Perrers.” Her voice was as flat as her stare.

“His Majesty has come to speak with the Prince.” I was very formal. How to broach this? Head-on as if in the tilting yard was the only way. “How is the Prince?”

I had not needed to ask. I had seen it for myself. His loss of weight was pitiful. Eyes feverish, skin gray, hair dull and lank. The basin positioned beside his daybed was ominous in itself. Joan’s features closed, tight with distress. Unable to hide her fears, she shook her head. I knew she would not lie, would not pretend. For once, her guard was down, with even the moisture of tears in her eyes. This was my one possibility, for Edward’s sake, of draining the poison from her hatred of me.

Grief strong in the set of her mouth, the hard lines deep from nose to chin in her soft flesh, Joan forgot she spoke to me. One tear rolled down her cheek. Then another. “I don’t know what to do for him!” It was a cry from the heart.

“I can help.”

“You! What can you do?” Furiously, she dashed away the tears.

I could have retreated. I would have, if I had known where this would lead, yet faced with such grief, knowing the terror of helplessness for myself when Edward looked at me as if I did not exist, I could not. In my arms I had a little coffer, a delight of sandalwood with ivory corners and metal hinges, and an intricate little lock and key. It was a costly gift in its own right, but its contents were of far greater value to the Prince. I had brought the only offering I could think of that might be acceptable. For sure the Princess would take nothing else from me. I placed it on the chest that held a tangle of her embroidery silks.

“What is that?”

“A gift.”

“I have coffers enough, and of greater value than that.” She barely looked at it, setting a number of stitches, stabbing clumsily at the panel for a purse or an altar cloth.

I thought it unlikely, given its value—for it was a gift to me from Edward—but I let it go.

“It is the contents that are valuable,” I explained gently. The nuns would have been proud of my humility. “A number of nostrums and potions. They will give the Prince ease.…”

“And do these nostrums and potions work?” She stopped stitching.

“They soothed the King in his grief after Philippa died. They helped Philippa too.”

Joan cast aside her sewing. I saw her fingers twitch over the domed lid. Surely such a gift was impossible to resist. She lifted it to reveal the carefully folded packets of herbs, the glass vials of intense color.

“They are distilled from common plants,” I explained. “I learned the skills at the Abbey. Here are the leaves of lady’s-smock to restore a lost appetite and soothe digestion. A tincture of primrose to aid rest and a quiet mind. White willow bark when the pain is too great to bear. I have written the amounts.” I indicated the sheet of parchment tucked under the lid. “Either you or the Prince’s body servants can mix them with wine as indicated. I’m sure the Prince would enjoy the effects.”

Joan looked at the coffer, the neat arrangement of packets and bottles. Her teeth bit hard into her lower lip.

“I can speak well for their effectiveness,” I encouraged as she made no move. “There is also the pulp of dog rose hips—to stanch bleeding and the loss of bodily fluids.”

We had all heard of the Prince’s appalling symptoms, the constant flow of blood and semen that could not be halted.

Joan moved. It was as if I had thrust a bunch of stinging nettles into her unprotected hand. With a jerk of her arm she swept the box from coffer to floor. It fell with a crack, damaging the hinges, so that glass from the vials shattered and the liquid ran. A dusting of herbs covered the whole, swirling into patterns. Richard squeaked in horror, then was quick to investigate, poking his fingers into the debris until Joan took a handful of his tunic to pull him away to stand beside her.

“Don’t touch that spawn of the devil!”

“Indeed it is not…” I remonstrated.

“Satan’s brew! And you are his servant!”

Her words were a shock, running cold through my blood as we looked at the mess between us, Joan still seated, I rigid with what she had implied. Until Joan raised her eyes to mine, holding them as she clicked her fingers for one of her women to approach from the far end of the room.

“Get rid of this. Burn it. And the box. I don’t want to find any trace of this on my floor.” And when the woman gawped at the detritus: “Do it now!” she hissed, like the kiss of a steel blade against its adversary.

As the woman busied herself, the Princess stood, gripped my wrist, and leaned close, her mouth against my ear. “Did you think I would be such a fool?”

I was still stunned by her outrageous response to a gift that could have brought nothing but good. “I thought you might accept what I could do to give your husband ease,” I remarked, watching the play of fury—and was that fear?—across her face.

“Ease! Distilled from common plants!” she spat. Her voice fell to a whisper that hissed in the corners of the room. “I hear you employ witchcraft to achieve your ends, Mistress Perrers. I think you have maleficium in mind. Not compassion!” Spittle sprang to her lips on the word.

But there was only one word that I heard out of the whole rant.

“Witchcraft!” I repeated, my voice equally low. It was not a word to shout to the rooftops. I had heard much said of me, but not that. A little breath of fear beat in my mind, but I managed a sneer coated in laughter. “And what do they say? Whoever they are. That I eat the flesh of children? That I keep a familiar and feed it from the blood of my own body?”

“They say you call up the devil’s powers. That you have skills and knowledge that no God-fearing woman should have.” I watched as Joan’s fingers on her left hand circled into the sign against the evil eye. “How in God’s name could you explain Edward’s fascination with so ugly and ill-bred a woman as Alice Perrers?” Her jaw snapped shut on my name.

It was the slide of a knife between my ribs, but I ensured that my reply gave away nothing of her wounding, or of the fear that spread to fill the spaces around my heart. The cold along the length of my spine deepened, as intense as ice in January.

“It is inexplicable, I grant you,” I remarked. Refusing to defend my birth or my looks, I dragged my wrist free of her grasp. “But my lord’s love for me is no product of witchcraft. Nor was this gift.” I slid my shoe over the sifting of dried heartsease flowers that still marked the floor. “But if my husband suffered as yours does, my lady, I would use the powers of the devil himself to give his body relief. I would leave no stone unturned between here and the depths of hell, if it would allow my husband a restful night and an end to pain.”

“Get out.”

“My lady.” I curtsied.

“Get out. Or I will lay evidence before the authorities that you plied me with witches’ condiments.”

“Your evidence is worthless.” For Edward’s sake, I would not allow my temper to rule.

“Get out of my sight.”

I did. I did not try again. Joan was too eaten up with hatred. I told Edward nothing of my interview. He did not deserve to know.

Witchcraft. Maleficium.

The vicious accusation continued to buzz in my brain, like a persistent bee in the depths of a foxglove flower. There was no evidence that Joan could use against me; of that I was certain, since there had never been any bewitchment, but it was too dangerous an accusation to be taken lightly.

Evidence could be fabricated, could it not?