The King's Concubine

Chapter Thirteen

How could I have been so disastrously shortsighted? I was terrifyingly, inexcusably complacent, unforgivably blinkered, and with no excuse to offer except that the normality of affairs lulled me into believing no change was imminent. Why worry? There was nothing to suggest that the long, warm days in the summer of 1375 held any danger. Edward was strong enough to host a tournament, and the spectacular Smithfield festivities in which I played a role left a sweet taste on the palate. So did Windsor’s assertion that he would miss me.

There was no obvious cause for concern.

Why is it that we never see disaster approaching until it overwhelms us, like failing to foresee a winter storm lashing onto a lee shore, crashing down with terrible destruction and heartbreak? I never saw it, but it broke over our heads with disastrous force.

Looking back I realize that I could not have foreseen what happened. The yearlong truce with France was drawing to its close with the prospect of new hostilities, but not for a while. Perhaps another truce could be cobbled together. Certainly neither side was urging the other to a further bout of bloodlust.

Edward’s health tottered on a knife’s edge but did not fall. Some days were good, and on others he drowned in melancholy that I could not lift from him, but death did not approach. To tell the truth, the Prince was far beyond help. He would be ordering his shroud within the year, if I knew the signs. Joan, her eye to her son’s future, was wound as tight as wool on a beginner’s distaff. Her temper, ever unpredictable, was dangerously short. But the King held on to life, and he had his heir in young Richard.

Windsor was in Ireland, and although our communication remained erratic, I knew that one day he would return to me. I refused to admit my longing to see him again.

In the early months of the new year, a Parliament was summoned. The upkeep of an army being paramount, taxation was essential to raise the revenue: The royal Treasury needed a substantial input of gold. All in all, it was nothing out of the way. Even the Prince rallied to be present beside Gaunt and the King at the ceremonial opening, an impressive trio of royal blood adorned in their ceremonial robes of scarlet and ermine hiding the frailty of life beneath.

Joan stayed away from Court. No one mentioned witchcraft.

And so the days passed inexorably into the summer of 1376. Who could have foreseen the outcome of Edward’s calling that thrice-damned Parliament? There was no intimation of danger as magnates, clergy, and commons came together in the Painted Chamber at Westminster with formal greetings and dutiful smiles on all sides. There was no undue restlessness in the ranks. Why would there be any barrier to fulfilling the royal demands? Parliament would act as it had always acted, to give its consent to raise revenue. The Commons retired, as they would, to the Abbey chapter house to elect their leader and consider the proposals to raise coin for the royal coffers. The debate would be brief and productive.

God’s Blood! It was neither. And I learned of it soon enough.

Gaunt, driven by pent-up anger, divested himself of gloves and hat and thrust open the door of Edward’s private parlor, where I sat. Shouldering Latimer aside, he slammed the door before striding across the room, where he halted in front of me.

“Where is he?”

Gaunt rarely lost control. Stark fear entered the room with him. Sweeping together the papers I was studying into a rough pile, then tucking them under the edge of a chest that held my pens and ink, I stood, my heart beating with sudden apprehension.

“The King is resting.” I stepped before the door to the bedchamber. Edward was prostrate with exhaustion.

Gaunt took a turn about the room, unable to remain still. “The Commons! They’ve elected Peter de la Mare as their Speaker.”

“Ah…!”

“De la Mare, by God!” Gaunt’s teeth were bared in a snarl. “That name means something to you, of course.”

I allowed my raised brows to make my answer. Every man and woman at Court knew of my recent confrontation with a member of the de la Mare family. It had been a regrettable little incident. Wisdom said that I should not have stepped into the argument, but when does wisdom count against a denial of justice toward an innocent man? I had become involved in a dispute that was not mine, and truth to tell, the outcome, mercifully to my advantage, had given me much pleasure.

“Our new Speaker is no friend to either of us,” Gaunt remarked, twitching a curtain into shape, then punching it so that it billowed again into disarray. “I’m not sure which of us he despises most.”

“I could hazard a guess.”

Considering that Edward’s privacy was relatively safe from invasion, I abandoned my stance and sat so that I could keep Gaunt in view as he continued to prowl. My recent adversary was a cousin of this Peter, now Speaker of the Commons: Thomas de la Mare, Abbot of St. Albans, a man with a famous reputation for erudition but none at all for charity or compassion. And not a man open to compromise.

Our clash of wills was all to do with the ownership of the insignificant little manor of Oxhay. Fitzjohn, a knight living there, was ejected from his property by the Abbot, who claimed ownership. So what did Fitzjohn do? Before marching once more into the manor to take hold of it, with worthy cunning he enfeoffed the property to me. And the Abbot, all prepared to summon the local mob to seize the manor in Saint Albans’s name and force Fitzjohn out, decided at the last moment that Alice Perrers was not one to tangle with.

The consequence? I kept the property with Fitzjohn as my tenant for life, and the Abbot called down curses on my soul. Unfortunate, all in all, given the choice of the new Speaker, cousin to the Abbot.

“So where does that put us?” I asked, surveying my loosely linked fingers. Still, I did not see the true danger. Could Gaunt not use his influence against an upstart leader of the Commons?

“Under threat,” Gaunt ground out through clenched teeth.

I frowned. “What possible mischief can he and the Abbot make, even if they combine forces?”

“Think about it.” Gaunt swept across the room and gripped the arms of Edward’s chair in which I sat, trapping me. His eyes were a bare handsbreadth from mine. I refused to allow myself to blink as I saw myself reflected there. “Who is Peter de la Mare’s noble employer?”

“The Earl of March…”

“So, do I have to spell it out?”

Gaunt reared back and stalked to the window to look out, although I swear he did not see the scudding clouds. No, he did not have to spell it out. Finally I saw the connection. Peter de la Mare was also steward to Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March, the husband of Edward’s granddaughter Philippa. A man who was not lacking in influence as Marshal of England, he would be more than happy to see his infant son become the next ruler of England.

“And March is involved…?”

“I’m sure he is!”

“Because of the succession…”

“Exactly! The whole lot of them are shackled together with my own princely brother in a plot against me.”

My fingers tightened together, white-knuckled. Had I not always wondered how loyal Gaunt would be to the true succession to the English crown?

Gaunt turned his head to stare fiercely at me over his shoulder. “It’s a conspiracy against me and those who stand as my friends. A neat little plot concocted by the Abbot of St. Albans and the Prince. Did you know they had long conversations together when the Prince stopped on his way from Berkhamsted to Canterbury earlier this year?”

No, I had not known.

“The Prince was not too ill to spend time putting weasel words into the ear of the Abbot. So there it is. March, the de la Mare cousins, and the Prince, all tied into a stratagem to keep me and my heirs from the throne.”

Never had Gaunt spelled out his ambitions so clearly. Not to me. Not, I surmised, to anyone. For it was dangerous talk. Treasonous, in fact, for it all came back to the problem of the future succession. If the Prince’s son Richard died without issue, the son of March and Philippa would rule England through order of descent, for Philippa had carried a son, a lad of three years old now. Not Gaunt. Not Gaunt’s boy, Henry Bolingbroke. Would Gaunt be vicious enough, ambitious enough, to destroy the claim of his nephew Richard, or that of the infant son of March? Watching his fist clench hard against the window ledge, I thought he might. But thought was not proof.…

Whatever the truth of it, rumor said that the Prince lived in fear that his son might never rule if Gaunt had his way. And the Prince from his sickbed was using the allies he had: the de la Mare cousins and now March, who had apparently discovered he had much to gain in opposing Gaunt.

I forced my mind to untie the knots. I still couldn’t quite see where this was leading. Unless the new de la Mare Speaker of the Commons intended to use the one weapon he had to get what he and his coconspirators wanted. My mind began to clear. The one weapon that would give him much power…

“Do you think that the Commons will grant finance for the war…?” I queried.

“At a price. And I wager de la Mare has it all planned to a miracle of exactness. He knows just what he will ask for, by God!”

“What?”

“I scent danger on the wind. They’re planning an attack. On me, on my associates in government. Latimer and Neville. Lyons. The whole ministerial crew, because I helped them into office. De la Mare and March will plot and intrigue to rid Edward of any man who has a connection with me. Gaunt will be isolated; that’s the plan. Brother warring against brother.” Gaunt’s smile was feral, humorless, as his eyes blazed. “And they will declare war on you too, Mistress Perrers, unless I’m way off in my reading of de la Mare’s crafty mind. Any chance that I might step into my brother’s shoes will be buried beneath the crucified reputations of royal ministers and paramour alike.” He folded his arms, leaning back against the stonework. “I did not think March had such ambitions. I was wrong. Being sire to the heir to the throne obviously appeals to him.”

Sire to the heir? But only if Richard were dead…Or perhaps Richard did not need to die.…The complications wound around my brain like a web spun by a particularly energetic spider. March—and even Gaunt—might challenge the boy’s legitimacy because of Joan’s scandalous matrimonial history. They would not be the first to do so, but…I could not think of that yet. There was a far more urgent danger.

“Can you hinder Speaker de la Mare?” I asked.

“What can I do? The Commons are elected and hold the whip hand over finance,” Gaunt responded, as if I were too much a woman to see it. “I’d look a fool if I tried and failed.” When he rubbed his hands over his face, I realized how weary he was. “You have to tell the King.”

My response was immediate and blunt. “No.”

“He needs to know.”

“What would be the point? If you can do nothing, what do you expect from an old man who no longer thinks in terms of plans and negotiations and political battles, who cannot enforce the authority of royal power? You’ve seen him when he is as drained as a pierced wine flask. What could he do? He’d probably invite de la Mare to share a cup of ale and discuss the hunting in the forest hereabouts.”

“He is the King. He must face them and…”

“He can’t. You know he can’t.” I was adamant. I watched as the truth settled on Gaunt’s handsome features, so like his father’s. “It will only bring the King more distress.”

Gaunt flung his ill-used gloves to the floor. For a moment he studied them as if they would give him an answer to the crisis; then he nodded curtly. “You’re right, of course.”

“What will you do?” I asked as he recovered his gloves and walked toward the door, his thoughts obviously far away. My question made him stop, slapping his gloves against his thigh, searching for a way forward.

“I’ll do what I can to draw the poison from the wound. The only good news is that the Prince is too weak to attend the sitting in person. It might give me a freer hand with Speaker de la Mare. If we come out of this without a bloody nose, it will be a miracle. Watch your back, Mistress Perrers.”

“I will. And I will watch Edward’s too.”

“I know.” For a moment the harshness in his voice was dispelled. “I detest having to admit it, but you have always had a care for him.” Then the edge returned. “Let’s hope I can persuade the Prince to have mercy on his father and leave him to enjoy his final days in peace.”

He made to open the door, clapping his hat on his head, drawing on his gloves, and I wondered. No one else would ask him, but I would.

“My lord…”

He came to a halt, irritably, his hand on the door.

“Do you want the crown for yourself?”

“You would ask that of me?”

“Why not? There is no one to overhear. And who would believe anything I might say against you?”

“True.” His lips acquired a sardonic tightness. “Then the answer is no. Have I not sworn to protect the boy? Richard is my brother’s son. I have an affection for him. So, no, I do not seek the crown for myself.”

Gaunt did not look at me. I did not believe him. I did not trust him.

But who else was there for me to look to? There would be no other voice raised in my defense.

Gaunt was gone, leaving me to search out the pertinent threads from his warning. So the Prince was behind the Commons attack, intent on keeping his brother from the throne. Every friend and ally of Gaunt would be dealt with. And I saw my own danger, for I had failed to foster any connection between myself and the Prince. But perhaps I was a fool to castigate myself over an impossible reconciliation. Could I have circumvented Joan’s loathing? I recalled her vicious fury over the herbs, her destruction of the pretty little coffer. No, the Prince would see me as much a whore as his wife did.

Could I do anything now to draw the poison, as Gaunt had so aptly put it? I could think of nothing. Edward was not strong enough to face Parliament and demand their obedience as once he might. He needed the money. And what would the price be for de la Mare’s cooperation to keep the imminent threat of France at bay? Fear was suddenly perched on my shoulder, chattering in my ear like Joan’s damned long-dead monkey.

Watch your back, Mistress Perrers!

I considered writing to Windsor, but abandoned that exercise before it was even begun. What would I say? I could expect no help from that quarter before the ax fell. If it fell. All was so uncertain. I shivered. I would simply have to hope that its sharp edge fell elsewhere.

In those days following Gaunt’s warning, while I sat tight in Westminster and rarely left Edward’s side, the name of Peter de la Mare came to haunt my dreams and bewitch them into nightmares. I gleaned every piece of information that I could. Neither Edward nor the Prince attended any further sessions, so all fell into the lap of Gaunt, who tried to chain de la Mare’s powers by insisting that a mere dozen of the Commons members should present themselves to confer privately with Gaunt in the White Chamber. De la Mare balked at the tone of the summons. How clear was the writing on the wall when he brought with him a force of well over a hundred of the elected members into a full session of Parliament? There they stood at his back, as their Speaker put forward his intent to the lords and bishops in the Painted Chamber.

He called Gaunt’s bluff, and it put the fear of God into me. This was a dangerous game de la Mare was playing, and one without precedent, as he challenged royal power. I would not wager against his victory.

Oh, Windsor. I wish you were here at Westminster to stiffen my spine.

I must stand alone.

Gaunt’s description of events during that Parliament, for my personal perusal, was grim and graphic. Thud! Speaker de la Mare’s fist crashed down against the polished wood. Thud! And thud again, for every one of his demands. Where had the money gone from the last grant? The campaigns of the previous year had been costly failures. There would be no more money until grievances were remedied. He flashed a smile as smooth as new-churned butter. Now, if the King was willing to make concessions…It might be possible to reconsider.…

Oh, de la Mare had been well primed.

There must in future be a Council of Twelve—approved men! Approved by whom, by God? Men of rank and high reputation to discuss with the King all matters of business. There must be no more covens—an interesting choice of word that clawed at my rioting nerves—of ambitious, self-seeking money-grubbers to drag the King into ill-conceived policies against the good of the realm.

And those who were now in positions of authority with the King? What of them?

Corrupt influences, all of them, de la Mare raged, neither loyal nor profitable to the Kingdom. Self-serving bastards to a man! Were they not a flock of vicious vultures, dipping their talons into royal gold to make their own fortunes? They must be removed, stripped of their power and wealth, punished.

And when Parliament—when de la Mare—was satisfied with their dismissal? Why, then the Commons would consider the question of money for the war against France. Then and only then.

“Do they think they are kings or princes of the realm?” Gaunt stormed, impotent. “Where have they got their pride and arrogance? Do they not know how powerful I am?”

“You have no power when Parliament holds the purse strings,” I replied. The knot of fear in my belly grew tighter with every passing day, as we awaited the final outcome.

And there it was.

Latimer, Lyons, and Neville were singled out as friends of Gaunt. And the charge against them? De la Mare and his minions made a good legal job of it, ridiculously so. Not one, not a score, but more than sixty charges of corruption and abuse, usury and extortion. Of lining their pockets from trade and royal funds, falsification of records, embezzlement, and so on. I had a copy of the charges delivered to me, and read them with growing anxiety. De la Mare was out for blood; he would not be satisfied with anything less than complete destruction.

I tore the sheet in half as the motive behind the charges became as clear as a silver coin dropped into a dish of water. Guilt was not an issue here. The issue was their tight nucleus of control, a strong command over who had access to the King and who had not. Latimer and I might see our efforts as protection of an increasingly debilitated monarch; de la Mare saw us as a blight that must be exorcised by fire and blood. What did it matter that Latimer was the hero of the nation, who had excelled on the field of Crécy? What did it matter that he ran Edward’s household with superb efficiency? Latimer and his associates were creatures of Gaunt. De la Mare was delirious with power and would have his way. Gaunt was helpless.

Throughout the whole of this vicious attack on his ministers, Edward was ignorant.

For what was I doing?

Trying to keep the disaster from disturbing Edward, whose fragility of mind increased daily. And I would have managed it too, having sworn all around him to secrecy, except for a damned busybody of a chamber knight, a friend of Latimer and Lyons, who begged for Edward’s intercession.

I cursed him for it, but the damage was done.

After that there was no keeping secrets.

“They’ll not do it, Edward,” I assured him.

Dismissal. Imprisonment. Even execution for Latimer and Neville had been proposed.

“How can we tell?” Edward clawed at his robe, tearing at the fur so that it parted beneath his frenzied fingers. If he had been able to stride about the chamber, he would have done so. If he had been strong enough to travel to Westminster, he would have been there, facing de la Mare. Instead, tears at his own weakness made tracks down his face.

“This attack is not against you!” I tried. “They will not harm you. You are the King. They are loyal to you.”

“Then why do they refuse me money? They will bring me to my knees.” He would not be soothed.

“Gaunt has it in hand.” I tried to persuade him to take a sip of ale, but he pushed my hand away.

“It is not right that my ministers be attacked by Parliament.…” Did he realize that I too was not invulnerable against attack? I don’t think he did. His mind, besieged by all manner of evils, could not see the full scope of what de la Mare was planning. I enfolded Edward’s icy hand, warming it between both of mine. “I want to see the Prince…” he announced, snatching his hand away.

“He is not well enough to come to you.”

“I need to listen to his advice.” He was determined, struggling to his feet. I sighed. “I want to go today, Alice.…”

“Then you shall.…”

I could not stop him, so I would make it as easy as I could, arranging everything for Edward’s comfort for a journey to Kennington. I did not go with him: I would not be welcome there, and it would do no good to add to Edward’s distress by creating some cataclysmic explosion of emotion between myself and Joan. I prayed that the Prince would be able to give his father the comfort that I could not.

And so I made my own preparations. No longer could I delude myself that Latimer, Lyons, and Neville would escape without penalty. And when they fell…

So far my name had not been voiced in de la Mare’s persecutions. I had remained unremarked, but that would not last; I saw retribution approaching. I had myself rowed up the Thames to Pallenswick—thereby removing myself from Westminster and from any of the royal palaces. Discretion might be good policy. What effect would it have on Edward’s failing intellect and body if the one firm center of his life was gone? For once, the prospect of Pallenswick, the most beloved of all my manors, and reunion with my daughters, did not fill me with joy. Rather a black cloud of de la Mare’s making settled over my head.

Storm clouds. Storm crows.

The words came back to me, Windsor at his most trenchant. The presentiments of doom were gathering.

I shivered with fear as the days passed, heavy with portent. Even though I was isolated from the Court, could I not see the future danger, its teeth bared like a rogue alaunt? I needed no recourse to a fortune-teller, or to my physician, who had something of a reputation for the reading of signs. I could read them for myself while sitting watchful at Pallenswick, every nerve strained. Braveheart slept at my feet, unconcerned, lost in a dream of coneys and mice. The blade Windsor had given me lay forgotten in a coffer upstairs. The threat to me came not from an assassin’s dagger but from the heavy fist of the law.

The three royal ministers were dealt summary justice, their offices and possessions stripped from them. They were confined to prison, but the demands for execution died. Not even de la Mare could make the charge of treason stick. There was no treachery in these men to endanger King or state, unless acquiring a purseful of gold was treason. And if it was, then every man in government employ was guilty. But imprisonment was considered a just punishment. This was the price Latimer and Neville and Lyons paid for their association with John of Gaunt and Alice Perrers!

Holy Virgin! Would I be next? Gaunt, a royal son, would be safe, but the royal Concubine would be a worthy target. I too might end my days in a prison cell.

My mind leaped to Ireland, as it often did in those days.

Did Windsor know of my plight? It gave me some foolish comfort to think of him riding to my rescue. But of course he would not, and he was too far away to stretch out a hand to me. I shut out the image of his arms protecting me, his strength resisting any attack. It was too painful to imagine when I had no weapon that I might use. I had given Edward all I could—my youth, my body, my children. My unquestioning allegiance. Now I was truly alone.

And then, as expected, the charges against me arrived, ominously red-sealed. I had to sit, my legs suddenly too weak to hold me upright, as I read de la Mare’s accusations, a pain hammering at my temples as I absorbed the horror of it. What had they concocted to make my freedom untenable?

Ah…! As I read the first charge, the pain lessened. My breathing steadied. Predictable, nothing outrageous to shock me. I could answer this. I could state my defense. This was not so very terrible after all.…

She has seized three thousand pounds a year from the royal purse!

From where had they conjured that sum? Any monies I had taken were gifts from Edward. I had stolen nothing. It was his right to give gifts where he chose, and when I had borrowed to purchase some manor or feudal rights, it had never been without Edward’s consent. Except for the purchase of the manors of Hitchin and Plumpton End that very year, when Edward’s mind had slipped into some distant territory. And the borrowed sums had been paid back. For the most part, anyway…And if I had not repaid them through some oversight—well, I defied Parliament to find me guilty of fraud or embezzlement in that quarter.

She has seized Queen Philippa’s jewels. She wears them. She has no shame in proclaiming her immorality with the King.

Yes, I wore them. Yes, I had no shame. Had Edward not given them to me? There was no illegality here. I read on.

She has shut the King away from his people. The only influence over him is hers, so that she might squeeze him dry of wealth and power.

True. I had kept him apart, protected. If it was a crime, I must answer for it, but it was not treason.

Ah! And then a charge with more than a snap of teeth. My heartbeat jumped again.

She has made use of the King’s Court in her acquisition of land. She has been so bold as to sit beside the judges, influencing their verdicts in manorial disputes to her own ends.

I had. If I had been a man, intent on urging my interests in the courts, there would have been no accusation made. Was it a crime to do so? Windsor’s harsh warning came back in a flood. They would seek to punish me for overstepping the boundaries suitable for a woman—but it was not treason.

My heart settled again. It would all come to nothing. By the end of the year there would be some new scandal to stir Parliament’s ire. Edward need not be troubled, for the threats against me were empty ones and would die on their feet. My mind was more at ease, and, reassured by the power of my logic, I returned to Westminster and from there, as the heat of June began to press down on us, I wrote to Windsor.

Latimer and Lyons and Neville languish in prison, for which I am sorry. I have no power to help them. Gaunt is furious. Edward is inconsolable for reasons that will be known to you. De la Mare is frustrated that he can find no evidence of treason against me. I think that they might be content to let me go.

There is no need for your concern about my safety.

Of late I have wished you here with me.

Edward is inconsolable, I had written, but not in reaction to my own predicament, because I told him nothing of the accusations leveled at me. How could I? The loss of his beloved son, in the same month that Parliament delivered those accusations, was too much for him to bear.

The Prince was dead.

I was with the King in those final days of his son’s life, as were many from London and far beyond who traveled to see the end of this great warrior, struck down before his allotted time. At Westminster, men and women filed before the Prince’s bed and wept openly as he wavered between sense and delirium. Joan remained beside him, rigid and tearless in her grief.

I did not weep for the Prince, but I did for Edward. For it was Edward’s burden that he must watch the Prince die, his favorite son, his firstborn, his hope for the future and the protector of England. What hope could Edward have in Richard, the nine-year-old child who was ushered into the death-ridden chamber to make his nervous farewell and be recognized as the future King of England? The Prince slid in and out of consciousness, the pain great enough to disfigure his noble face, and Edward remained throughout to witness his passing. The outpouring of grief was too much for the King’s spare frame. His face was gray with fatigue.

When it was over, I helped Edward to turn his stumbling steps back to his rooms and lie down on his bed, unseeing, unmoving, as if the Prince’s death had drawn some of the life from his own body. Sitting beside him well into the night hours, I knew that I would not tell him of Parliament’s attack on me. I told myself, willing myself to believe, that the Commons had slaked its thirst for blood on Latimer and Lyons; that the evidence against me was weak, and they would abandon me as not worth their effort.

Wrong! How desperately wrong I was. De la Mare would conjure the evidence from the ashes in the fire grate if he had to. I should have known he would not let me be, yet if I had, what could I have done?

I soon learned the depths to which de la Mare could sink in his desire for revenge.

We were at Sheen, where I hoped that the superb quality of the hunting and the comfort of tiled courtyards and newly glazed windows would give Edward’s mind a more optimistic turn. Wykeham, restored to earthly glory as one of the newly appointed twelve high-minded men to counsel Edward in place of his scurvy ministers, arrived at the same time as a group of merchants representing the City of London, who had come to petition the King. Complaining bitterly over the precarious state of law and order in the capital, they were determined to be heard, though I would have preferred to send them away. They had been invited to send a delegation, so here they were to see the King and beg his intervention. Accepting the rightness of their cause, and perhaps conscious of the hate-filled de la Mare breathing his fetid breath down my neck, I allowed it. I had no intention of adding fuel to the fire by keeping Edward shut away from his people. We worked hard to make the best show we could, not in the great audience chamber, but in a smaller one, where the King was already seated when the petitioners arrived.

They bowed before him. Edward made no gesture of recognition.

Forgive me, Edward! Forgive me! I could have wept again for him. How close my tears were in those days, when for most of my life I had been dry-eyed. Could de la Mare, in rare pity for his King, not acknowledge the truth of why I had kept Edward from the public eye?

We had swathed him in cloth of gold and tied him as well as we could into his chair so that at least he gave the appearance of normality, but it was as if a statue filled the royal throne, not a living, breathing man. He looked vacantly at the merchants when they complained that the peace of the realm was in jeopardy. And when they went on to describe the lawless behavior of the mobs and John of Gaunt’s troops, and the scandal of an attack against the Bishop of London himself, Edward, uncomprehending, replied with a mumbling of incoherent words that no one could hear, let alone understand.

“This is a travesty,” murmured Wykeham in my ear where we stood a little removed from the audience.

“But I must allow it,” I stated.

“Why?”

“Because de la Mare accuses me of standing between the people and the King, and—before God!—what he says is true. I have done exactly that.” I could hear despair building in my voice. “You can see why.…”

“Yes…” Wykeham looked back to where Edward remained engraved in stone. “The commons should not have to see this.”

“Nor should the King have to endure it,” I added more curtly than I had intended. “To put him on show in this manner is…” I recalled having had the same argument with Windsor. Suddenly I felt very tired.

“…is cruel.” Wykeham finished my train of thought with a sigh.

One of the knights standing beside Edward leaned over to grasp his shoulder and keep him upright.

“End this, Alice,” Wykeham murmured. “It can’t go on.”

The delegation stood uncertainly, a mix of horror and pity on their faces, and I hurried forward.

“The audience is at an end, gentlemen.…” And as the merchants bowed themselves out, gestures that Edward did not see, I touched Edward’s hand. He did not respond. “Take the King to his chamber,” I instructed. “I will come to him.”

“I doubt he will know whether you do or not. I had not known he had faded so quickly,” Wykeham said.

“The Prince’s death was the final blow.”

“Before God, it’s pitiful.”

“It’s more than that.…” I could not watch as the knights lifted Edward from the throne and led him stumbling away. “Now, why are you here, Wykeham? I hope it’s good news.” I did not need to ask, now that I had time to read his expression.

“No.”

“Then tell me. It can’t be worse than what we have just seen.”

“I think it can, mistress. Let us find someplace where you can be emotional.”

“Emotional?”

“You might feel the need to throw something.”

The words sent a bolt of fear through my body.

“I thought you should know, mistress, what de la Mare is saying to stir the Commons against you.”

I was in no mood for guessing games. “What now? That I have secreted the whole of the crown jewels—including Edward’s crown—in a cache to ward off future poverty?”

“It’s far worse.” He waited until there was no one within earshot, and whispered, “De la Mare is citing necromancy.”

I came to an abrupt halt, my hand fastening like a claw around Wykeham’s wrist.

Necromancy? Witchcraft!

I think I laughed at the absurdity of it—until my throat dried, my thoughts tumbling as I tried to recall. This was no time for laughter. I could think of no possible evidence of necromancy that could be laid at my door…unless…Joan’s accusations and the box of remedies. Surely her impassioned words would have no bearing on de la Mare’s attack. My notions had been what any goodwife could have produced.

“He can’t accuse me of that!” I retorted.

“Don’t be too quick to judge! You might listen first, mistress, to what I know.”

I took him into the garden, where we could walk or sit without eavesdroppers. Onlookers might wonder at a conversation between the King’s Concubine and the Bishop of Winchester, but, under the circumstances, they might consider my need for confession to be urgent.

Confession, by God!

“I am no witch!” I could barely wait until we were secluded, apart from the bees enjoying the heady flowers of lavender and thyme.

“That’s not what your physician is saying!”

“My physician?” Father Oswald, a gentle, unassuming Benedictine monk, had been attached to my household for many years now. I would have thought him to be unswervingly loyal. “What has he said?” I racked my mind for anything that could be construed as dealing with the devil. A few foolish love potions for the damsels—but they were far in the past. As were the salves and drafts I’d given Philippa to ease her pain. There was no witchcraft there; nor would Father Oswald have any intelligence of them.

“Your physician’s been put under some…pressure…to speak of what he knows.” Wykeham was deadly certain. “His accusations against you ran like a stream in spate.”

“Torture?”

“So I understand.”

This was dangerous stuff. How many times had a difficult woman been accused of being in league with the devil, ultimately to face death by drowning or the excruciating pain of fire…? I shuddered in the warmth of the parterre.

“I am no witch,” I repeated stalwartly.

“Then let me tell you what’s being said, mistress.”

Wykeham pulled me farther along the pathway until we stood in the very center, facing each other on either side of the sundial. It was a magnificent tale, as old as time, told with remarkable—and frightening—exactitude. There we were, whore and priest, standing in a summer landscape, and I felt the jaws of death closing in around me. “So that you should be clear about it,” Wykeham said dryly, his face severe but not without compassion, “they’ll hound you to death if they can, Alice.” Wykeham always had a way with words, probably from preaching so many sermons to the damned.

“Where did the evidence come from?” I asked.

“John de la Mare, brother to the Speaker of the Commons—how fortunate,” Wykeham explained with blistering brevity. “He visited Pallenswick with a chamber pot of urine, asked for help to have his entirely fictitious malady diagnosed—and in pious charity Father Oswald agreed.”

“Father Oswald always was a gullible fool when it came to judging others,” I observed irritably. “Had he no suspicions?”

“Apparently not. He was brought to London and questioned. I’ve no doubt force was used.” Wykeham eyed a lively flight of goldfinches in the adjacent bushes. “Your admirable physician admitted to a remarkable range of activities on your behalf.”

“The last thing he did for me was mix a salve to calm my chilblains.”

Wykeham grunted. “It’s far worse than that. By the by, they said you were there, at Pallenswick. And that you grew pale with fear when you saw your man under restraint.”

“By God! I was not!”

“I think God has no role in this. Rather the devil. This is what your man did for you, if he is to be believed.”

Wykeham ticked the charges off on his fingers while I absorbed the depth of my supposed guilt. This was far worse than fraud and embezzlement. The accusations smeared the soft air in that pretty spot with the filth of necromancy. All of it false, yet its falsehood impossible to prove.

“Your physician claimed that upon your order he created two images, of yourself and His Majesty, and bound them together to make an indissoluble bond. Thus he explained Edward’s infatuation with you. Their words—not mine. Your physician made two rings with magical properties for you to put onto Edward’s finger, one to refresh the King’s memory so that you would always be in the forefront of his thoughts, the other to cause forgetfulness of all else but yourself. And he made love potions and spells suffused with herbs picked at the full moon, at your request, to work your magic to bewitch the King into infatuation.” He paused, eyeing me. “You have been very busy, it seems, Mistress Perrers.”

“Have I not? And do you believe all this?”

Wykeham shrugged. “He also said he made a spell so that you could charm Gaunt and the Prince to your own ends.”

“Both of them?” My voice was no more than a croak.

“Yes. I think he added both for good measure.”

“It says little for Father Oswald’s skill.” Should I laugh or weep at the outrageousness of it all? “I failed singularly to win the Prince to my favor, and Gaunt’s allegiance is unpredictable, governed by self-interest.”

A silence fell between us. I had nothing at hand to throw.

“The Speaker is making much of it,” Wykeham said.

“He would, of course.” I tried to predict the next step in this battle, for surely that was what it was. “What have they done with my poor physician?”

“Sent him to St. Albans, in a sorry state, to face his superiors. They’ve done with him, mistress. It’s you they want.” Wykeham’s gaze was cool and direct. I waited for his condemnation, but it did not come. So…

“You were kind to come here to inform me,” I said over the chased metal of the sundial that showed the passing minutes. It seemed hours since Wykeham had first breathed the word witchcraft, since my world had become a thing of terror, but the line of shadow had barely moved. Now encroaching clouds blotted out the sun. “You still haven’t said whether you believe the charge or not.”

“The sin of avarice, perhaps. Of pride, certainly…”

“Oh, Wykeham…!” Would he list all my failings?

“But witchcraft? No, not that. I believe you have a deep affection for the King. I don’t believe you would ever do him harm.”

“My thanks. You are one of very few.” It gave me some comfort, but not much. We began to walk back toward the palace, driven in by a sharp little breeze that had chased away the bees and promised rain. Here was blatant propaganda of the worst kind to blacken my character. I stopped, regardless of the spatter of heavy drops.

“Will they find me guilty?” And when Wykeham hesitated: “Don’t give me a soft answer. Tell me what you think!”

“I’d no intention of hiding the truth. I think they might. De la Mare is slavering for the kill.” I flinched when Wykeham did not temper his words. “With Latimer and Lyons under his belt, his confidence shines like a comet. I find it difficult to meet with him without addressing the sin of pride. Damn him!”

“What a handful of unpriestly expressions.” I smiled bleakly. “And if the punishment is proven? Will it be death?”

He thought for a long moment. “Unlikely. Penance and fasting probably. You haven’t killed anyone. Imprisonment at the worst.”

My throat was dry and I barely felt the rain on my face. “Then I’ll plan for the worst. I don’t see de la Mare being content with a few missed meals and a paternoster.” The thought of imprisonment was bad enough to me. I closed my mind to it. “What do I do, Wykeham?”

“You could take refuge at Pallenswick.”

Inwardly I recoiled at the implication, that making a defense against the charges would be a waste of his breath and mine. But flight? “No.” I wouldn’t even consider it. “I cannot. You’ve seen the King. He needs me.”

“Then you remain here and do nothing. Just wait. The Speaker might abandon it…”

I completed his sentence when he hesitated again. “…if he finds something worse to pin on me.”

Wykeham looked ’round sharply. “Why? What else have you done?”

I shook my head and looked away, across to the trees that were now shivering in the wind. There was one secret I prayed would remain hidden from public knowledge for a little time yet. It would bring too much pain to Edward.

And if it didn’t?

Back in my room, where I retired to change my muddied skirts, I hurled a handsome glazed jug at the wall, and then regretted it. I felt no better for it, and one of the serving maids had to clean it up.

Once Wykeham was gone, I returned to Edward’s side in his great chamber. He was now wrapped in a chamber robe, the scarlet and fur at odds with the wasted figure it contained. Before the fire—he always felt the cold even on the warmest day—he slept in his chair, his head forward on his chest, a cup of ale at his side. John Beverley, his body servant, stood close by if he should wake and lack for aught. I gestured that he should leave, and sat on a stool at Edward’s feet, as I was wont to do when he was still in his prime and I was a young girl. But my thoughts were not of past memories. As I leaned my head against the chair, Wykeham’s warnings echoed shockingly in my mind. He might be sanguine about my punishment, but I was not convinced. Prison walls seemed to hem me in.

When Edward moved, I looked up, grateful for the distraction. His eyelids lifted slowly and gradually his eyes focused on me. They were lucid and aware. My heart leaped with joy.

“Edward.”

“Alice.” Even his voice was stronger. He could still surprise me. “Dear girl. I have missed you.”

“I have been here with you while you slept. You had an audience with some of the worthies from London.”

He sighed a little. “I don’t remember. Bring me a cup of ale.”

I reached to pick up the forgotten cup beside him and placed it in his hand, curling his fingers around it. Sometimes he was still very much the King.

He sipped, then handed the cup back to me. “Will you sing to me?”

How little he remembered! “I would, but it would not be to your pleasure. I’m told I have a voice like a creaking door hinge.” I smiled as I recalled one of Isabella’s more vulgar remarks and saw an answering gleam in Edward’s eyes. “But here is a verse I have found and liked, because it speaks of old lovers, as we are.…” I sank back against his chair, arranging my skirts, drawing the little book from the purse at my belt. “It is about the cold of winter, and the warmth of enduring love. You will like it too.” I began to recite, slowly, gently, forming the words clearly so that he might follow.

“The leaves are failing; summer’s past;

What once was green is brown and sere;

All nature’s warmth has faded fast and gone from here;

The circling sun has reached the last house in its year.”

“You have it right, Alice. Winter has me in its thrall even in the heat of summer.” Edward dragged in a breath, as if it were painful for him to speak it. “I am no use to you as a man. I regret it, but am unable to remedy it.”

“No, but listen, Edward. It is not sad at all.

“The world is chilled in every part:

But I alone am warm and grow

Still warmer. It delights my heart to feel the glow:

My lord made the burning start—I love him so.”

“Alice…You have a beautiful voice.” The slight slurring of his words that always returned when he grew weary was very evident. “I think that was one of the first things I noticed about you.”

“I doubt it!” I laughed a little at the memory. “I think I was shrieking like a fishwife in the chapel at Havering when I was accused of theft! And you were tied up with your clock.”

“I had forgotten.…” He sought my hand and his fingers tightened around mine. I could feel his eyes on my face, on my lips, as I read the final tender lines.

“This fire in my heart is nourished by

My lord’s kisses and his gentle touch;

And shining from his radiant eye the light is such

That neither earth nor brilliant sky can show as much.”

“There, you see.” I closed the little book. “Love remains even in the depths of winter and the fullness of years.”

Silence settled around us. He was asleep again, and my heart was full of sorrow that he should mourn the loss of virility so keenly and above all else. We might no longer be lovers, but we were bound together by our past that stretched over well-nigh thirteen years. Even in sleep, his fingers held mine and I knew he was pleased.

For a little time my fears of witchcraft were banished. I would allow nothing to separate us. Not until death released Edward from his present sufferings.

“Is it true?” Wykeham demanded, his voice raw and positively vibrating with disbelief. He had come to Sheen again in a towering fury.

“Is what true? If it’s more empty mouthings of de la Mare that you’ve come to report, then don’t! Just go away!”

I reacted without patience. I was weary beyond my soul. There was no royal audience to distract us this time. Lost in the past, Edward was dictating orders to mark the occasions of the deaths of both his mother and Philippa. And this was after a week when he had spoken not one word to anyone: not to his servants, not to God. Certainly not to me. I had made myself scarce until the doleful ceremony of remembrance was done.

“Is it true?” Wykeham bellowed.

I stood in the center of the Great Hall. “Is what true?”

When Wykeham shouted back, careless of who overheard, I knew my fate was sealed. When he had come to warn me about the charge of necromancy hanging over my neck, he had been the concerned and courteous priest. Now he was the dread harbinger of doom, the executioner. There was no escape for me.

“You actually married him?”

Holy Mother! “Who?” I asked, playing desperately for time.

“You know who!”

Wykeham watched me. He was waiting for me to deny it, while knowing that I couldn’t.

“Yes.” I raised my chin. “Yes, I did.”

“I don’t believe that you would do anything so…so”—he groped for self-control—“so ill-advised!”

“Well, Wykeham! How mealymouthed!” There was nothing genial about my smile. “And how did de la Mare mine that little gem?” I asked. “I thought no one knew.”

“Does it matter?” His voice had dropped to a hiss. “When?”

“Just before he returned to Ireland.”

“That was when? Two years ago? You’ve been wed for two years?” The volume grew again to echo above us. “In God’s name, Alice! What were you thinking?”

I did not want to explain. I did not think I could.

“Does Edward know?” Wykeham threw up his arms as much in despair as anger.

“No.”

“Don’t you realize what you’ve done?” At least Wykeham now had the sense to lower his voice. “You’ve made him an adulterer!”

I lifted a shoulder. “And so were we both when Philippa was alive. Edward did not step back from it then, when he had all the knowledge. What’s the difference?”

Wykeham kicked a foot into the ashes of the open fire, sending up a shower of sparks.

“Why, Alice? Why do it? If it was a roll between the sheets you wanted, why not just do it without the sanction of Holy Mother Church? As for the man you chose! God’s Blood! A more self-interested, unprincipled bastard I have yet to meet.…”

Because…because…I watched the sparks die as they fell into gray dust. Because I loved him. Because beneath the hard-edged ambition and ruthless temperament there was in Windsor a man of rare honesty who actually cared for me. But I would not say this to Wykeham. He would not have believed me.

“I wed him because he asked me.”

“Alice!”

I abandoned the flippancy. “Don’t lecture me, Wykeham. You of all people should know that I must make my future secure. I come from nothing and will return to nothing if I don’t make provision. I will not have my children live in penury or on the charity of others, as I did.”

“Surely you have enough property by now to keep shoes on their feet!”

“Perhaps I need a man to stand for me.”

“But to wed him.”

“He offered when no one else would. It is not adultery. Not in the letter of the law. The King and I are no longer intimate.” The priest in him flushed to his hairline. “Don’t be prudish, Wykeham. It can’t be a surprise to you that the King is incapable.”

“But the King recognized the children you had together. They will never suffer.”

“Yes, he made provision. But will Princess Joan allow the provision to continue when her son is king?” It was a half-buried fear that was quick to resurface. “I dare not risk it. If marriage to Windsor secures my daughters’ dowries and marriage, then I’ll not regret it.”

“What will Edward say?”

Which brought me up short, as he intended. I replied slowly. “He will be hurt, of course.”

“You must tell him. Unless he knows already.”

“Pray God he does not.”

As Wykeham left me alone in the Great Hall, all its spaces empty around me, I thought of the one thing I had not said. I had wed Windsor—a name that had not once been voiced between us—because I loved him. How weak did that make me?

How swiftly gossip flew. Edward knew. There were always those at Court who would make mischief, and Edward’s mind was clear enough.

“You betrayed me, Alice. You betrayed my love for you.”

He rubbed his hands together in incessant repetition, one over the other, his fingers tearing, his nails marking his skin. Guilt-ridden, I fell on my knees, trying to still his fretful clawing, but he would not stop. Edward turned his face from me as he had never done before.

“I don’t want you here.”

I deserved it. All my senses were frozen.

Did the Commons have mercy on me? By God, they did not! In a mood of vengeful exuberance they ordered me to appear before them in the Painted Chamber at Westminster. And I obeyed—what choice did I have?—seeing nothing but the lugubrious face of de la Mare gleaming with unholy virtue as I set my mind to hear and accept my punishment for bringing the King of England into adultery. By now I feared the worst, gripping my hands together as I sat on the low stool provided for me. At least they allowed me to sit.

I sat straight-backed, determined to hear my fate with dignity. I would never bow my head before de la Mare. Whatever punishment they meted out, nothing could be worse than Edward’s rejection of me.

Nothing?

Ah, no! There was worse, much worse. What had they done? The door to the magnificent Painted Chamber opened and there was Edward, brought to appear before his own Parliament for my sins and his, and I saw the panicked fear in his gaze as it skittered over the vast assembly. I stood abruptly; I even think I reached out to him in my guilt and misery, but he did not look at me, all his efforts fixed on walking to take his place on the throne. Slowly, one step after another, he dragged himself there, and pushed himself upright to face his accusers. And I prayed that they would turn their claws on me, not on Edward, who did not deserve this. I willed him to look at me. Whatever was asked of me, I would not betray him more than I already had done. I would not do or say anything to increase his humiliation. Was it not terrible enough that he must be here?

De la Mare bowed. “We are honored, Sire.”

And I sank back to my seat as I waited for the blow to fall, as de la Mare faced Edward.

“Majesty. We are concerned that Mistress Perrers has acted toward you with a degree of insincerity that is beyond belief.”

How smooth he was. How terrifyingly, horrifyingly respectful before plunging the metaphorical dagger into Edward’s unsuspecting heart.

Edward blinked, hands clutching.

“We believe she has put Your Majesty’s soul in mortal danger.”

Would he dare to accuse Edward of being complicit in adultery? My nails dug deep into my palms.

“Were you aware, Sire, that Mistress Perrers had entered into matrimony? That she has been married to the knight William de Windsor for two years or more?”

Bewildered, Edward shook his head.

“Were you so aware, Sire?”

“No…!” Again I was on my feet. How dared they question him! This was my guilt, not his.

“Be seated, Mistress Perrers.”

“It is not right.…”

“It is very right.” De la Mare swung back to the King. “Did you know, Sire?” I sat again, forcing myself to look at Edward in his extremity and accept that this was all my doing. “Were you aware, Sire, that the woman who is acknowledged as your mistress is married?” The question was hammered home once more.

And I heard Edward reply. Calm and clear. Unemotional. “I was not aware.”

“Would you swear to that, Sire?”

The Speaker would dare to ask the King of England to swear an oath? Edward’s face was ravaged, but he replied, “I swear on the name of the Holy Virgin. I did not know.”

“So she tricked you, Sire.”

“I don’t know. How could I know…?”

Oh, Edward! How could I have put you in this position?

It was all de la Mare needed. Facing me now, he flung out an arm in a dramatic all-encompassing gesture.

“You are guilty. You have willfully put the King into the state of adultery. You tricked him with your lies and deceit. The fault is yours.”

I waited for the noxious taint of witchcraft to fill the chamber.

“What is the punishment for your crime? There are those here who demand your execution. The means you have used are unholy, disgusting in the sight of God. We have evidence of…”

I tensed. This would be the moment. Maleficium!

“Sirs…!”

I looked across the chamber. It was Edward. De la Mare hesitated.

“I beg of you,” Edward said, each word carefully formed as he looked at me at last, his eyes weighted with sorrow, confusion, and, astonishingly, a hard-won determination. My heart was wrung. “Show her mercy, sirs. I beg of your compassion. She does not deserve execution. If you have any loyalty to me, your King, you will show this woman leniency in your judgment. She has done wrong, but she does not deserve death.”

I held Edward’s gaze. In that final sentence he had both betrayed and upheld me. All hung in the balance.

“Mistress Perrers deserves a lesser punishment than death,” Edward repeated. “I beg of you…”

And grief all but overwhelmed me.

“We honor your request, Sire.” De la Mare could not disguise his self-congratulation, so smug that I felt an urge to vomit. “Stand up, Mistress Perrers.”

I did so, bracing knees that refused to obey me.

“We are decided.…”

De la Mare spelled out the terms of my punishment. As it flowed from his lips, detailed, thorough, I knew that it had been decided all along. There had been no need to put Edward through this pretense. Grief was transmuted into an anger that shook me as I absorbed the extent of de la Mare’s revenge. Even Princess Joan could not have thought up any better.

Banishment!

The single word hung in the air with all the heaviness of its meaning. I was banished. Never to see Edward again.

“You will live at a distance from the royal Court. You will not return. If you disobey, if you make any attempt to approach the King, you will lose everything you own and suffer permanent exile overseas.” The Speaker’s lips widened into a rictus of a smile over his discolored teeth. “If you break in any way the terms of this banishment, all your property, your goods and chattels will be seized and confiscated.” His pleasure disgusted me, but I stood unmoving, unresponsive. I would never give him the satisfaction of seeing how much this penalty wounded me.

Glancing at Edward, I knew that he did not understand. His eyes were closed, his mouth lax. He had no inkling of what they had just done. If I walked across the chamber to him now, I would be left with nothing and banished from England.

With blood drained from my face, my hands as cold as ice, I did what they wanted. My lips pressed to the crucifix presented to me, and I swore that I would never return to the King. I would live apart, away from the royal Court. I would never see Edward again.

Thus I abandoned him, or so it felt in my heart.

Where to go? I collected my immediate possessions and went to Wendover, Wykeham’s old manor that Edward had gifted to me. My sore heart urged Pallenswick, but I knew Parliament would consider it too close to Sheen, or the Tower, or Westminster, wherever Edward might be, and with too easy a route along the Thames. So I went to Wendover, a good three days’ journey, to lick my wounds, after I had risked seeing Edward for the last time. Surely a final farewell would be allowed.

He did not know me. When I stood before him and spoke his name, he did not answer. His eyes made no contact with mine.

“Edward!”

There was no flicker of acknowledgment in his empty gaze.

“I have come to say farewell.”

Nothing. I was not pardoned. His wayward mind could not encompass me or what I had done. I kissed his forehead and curtsied deeply.

“Forgive me, Edward. I would not have it end like this. I would never have left you.”

At least he was spared the pain of parting. I closed the door of his chamber, swallowing my tears. I was Alice Perrers, King’s Concubine no longer, humiliated, repudiated, maliciously destroyed.

Who was not in the Painted Chamber to witness my downfall?

Gaunt.

Who made no attempt to see me, to stand for me?

John of Gaunt.

He too had abandoned me. The alliance, tenuous at best, did not bring him to my side when I most had need of him. I was no longer of any value to him. He’d been refused the position of regent for his nephew Richard by the magnates who feared his power, and I had no means of helping him. It would do no good for Gaunt’s name to be coupled to any degree with mine.

He turned his back on me.

And my poor, lost Edward? I had Wykeham tell me how he fared. On the days when he was driven by anger, he accused Windsor far more harshly than he accused me. And then there were times when old loyalties returned to Edward, when he looked for me, asked for me, and was told that I could not come. Days when his senses deserted him. I knew of the hours when he sat in uncomprehending gloom with tears on his cheeks. The King was nothing but a lonely, forgotten old man, with no one to stir his spirits to life. Who would reminisce with him? Who would talk to him of the glory days, as I had done?

No one.

Gaunt was too busy plotting revenge against de la Mare and the Earl of March, who now stood with Wykeham as one of Edward’s councilors. Isabella was back with her husband in France. There was no one to remember the past.

I also knew of the increasing number of days when Edward’s thoughts turned inward.

“I will bury my son, my glorious Prince, and then I will die.”

I wept for him. I did not write to Windsor. I could not find the words; nor could I bear his pity.