by Anne O'Brien
Why would she remember me? Because it was an occasion of moment in my life had no bearing on what a queen might remember. She would have forgotten about me within the quarter hour of my returning the rosary. But I did not forget Queen Philippa. She had the loving kindness in her homely face of the mother that I had never known.
I wondered what Greseley was doing. Whether I would ever see him again. Whether he was taking care of the houses in Gracechurch Street and the little manor in West Peckham. Surely he could raise enough money from them for my own needs.
I prayed even more fervently over the hams than I had over the cabbages that it would be soon, before my hopes died.
The early blossom on the gnarled trees in the orchard was over, setting into fruit the plums and damsons that we would preserve against the long winter months. I was engaged in collecting dead branches for firewood to heat the old bones in the infirmary, and scooping up the June drop of fruit that would attract wasps. An unpleasant task, all in all.
Sister Matilda stood at the gate beckoning me, her black sleeves flapping like the wings of the blackbirds that competed with me for the fallen fruit.
“Hurry, girl. Leave that.”
My mind scrabbled through any recent sin, of omission or commission. Even as a lay sister who was not required to observe every service, I was still bound by the tenets of Saint Benedict. It was too early in the day to have broken many of them; my silence in the orchard was complete, since I was alone. I was conscious of my disheveled skirts where I had knelt beneath the low branches, and of the mud on my shoes. Was that it? I made a desultory attempt to beat away the soil and grass.
“No time for that…” Sister Matilda took hold of my sleeve and pulled me along.
Where? Clearly not to the Chapter House. Nor the Abbey church. Instead we turned into the roofed passage between cloister and refectory that led through to the enclosed courtyard before the Abbess’s lodgings, which was so full of people and horses there was barely room for us. Mother Abbess, heavy with satisfaction, stood on the steps out of the way of the melee caused by a small party of travelers: a tall, well-dressed man, perhaps a courier, judging from his riding gear of fine wool and leather; an elderly thickset groom who held the reins of a fine gelding; and a small but well-armed escort, sword and bow very evident.
As Sister Matilda and I flattened ourselves against the wall out of the way of teeth and hooves, I had the impression that a conversation between the Abbess and the courier had just come to a satisfactory end, and a small coffer was handed into Mother Sybil’s keeping. But why was I here? This was nothing to do with me. Then the courier turned a penetrating gaze toward me.
“You are Alice?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You are to go with me, mistress.” He looked me up and down and, from the narrowing of his eyes, found me wanting. “You will need a cloak.” And to the Abbess: “Provide one for her, if you please.”
I looked to Mother Sybil for instruction. She lifted a shoulder, as if denying any complicity in what had been arranged. Had my labors been bought again? Holy Virgin! Not another marriage! The man continued to address me, impervious and uninformative.
“Can you ride, mistress?”
“No, sir.”
He motioned to the groom. “She’ll ride pillion behind you, Rob. She’s no weight to speak of.”
Within minutes I was bundled into a coarsely woven cloak and hoisted onto the broad rump of the groom’s mare, as if I were the cordon of firewood I would now never collect from the orchard.
“Hold tight, mistress,” the man called Rob growled.
I clutched the sides of his leather jerkin as the animal stamped and sidled. The ground seemed far away and my balance was awry. At a signal from the man who had thus so smoothly rearranged my future, the escort fell in and we rode through the streets of the town and into the open country without a further word being said on either side.
Obviously my escort preferred the silence, and hoped it would continue. But what woman would keep a still tongue when her inquisitiveness ran rampant?
“Sir?” I addressed the back of the man who was now riding a little way ahead of me. When there was no reply, I raised my voice. “Sir? Where are we going?” One day, I vowed, I would determine the direction of my travels.
He did not turn his head. He might have addressed me as “mistress,” but it seemed I was not worthy of any further respect. “To Havering-atte-Bower.”
It meant nothing to me. “Why?”
“The Queen has sent for you.”
Which meant even less. “Is Havering-atte-Bower, then, a royal palace?”
“Yes.”
“Why? Why would the Queen summon me?”
The man slowed his horse and gestured the groom to pull alongside. On a level, he reined in his mount, allowing me to read his unspoken thoughts as clear as figures in a ledger. His mouth curved downward, as if it were all beyond his comprehension, and it took little imagination on my part to understand why. My kirtle and overgown bore the sticky remnants of the fallen fruit in St. Mary’s orchard, my hair was bound up in a length of coarse cloth, and my borrowed cloak was far beyond respectability.
He kicked his mount into a walk, and we plodded on side by side as he considered what he thought of me and what he would deign to tell me.
“Why would the Queen send for me?” I asked again. Why were men so uncommunicative?
“I have no idea. Her Majesty will doubtless tell you.”
He shortened his reins as if to push on with more speed, our conversation brought to a premature end. I wanted more.
“Who are you, sir?”
He gave no reply, through choice, I decided, rather than because he had not heard me, so I took the time to appraise him. Nothing out of the way. He was neither young nor old, with regular features, and a little austere. He was certainly used to command, but I thought he was not a soldier. Nor was he the courier I had first thought him. He had too much authority for that. His eyes were a mix of green and brown, sharp and bright, like those of a squirrel. I thought him rather pompous for a man who could not be exactly described as old. So we would ride to Havering-atte-Bower in total silence, would we? I thought not. I held tight to Rob’s tunic and leaned toward my reluctant companion.
“I have much to learn, sir,” I began. “How far to Havering-atte-Bower?”
“About two hours. Three if you don’t get a move on.”
I ignored the jibe. “Time enough, then. You could help me. You could tell me some of the things I don’t know.”
“Such as?” He addressed me as if I were the witless minion I doubtless appeared to be.
“You could tell me how to behave when I get to Havering-atte-Bower,” I suggested solemnly, at the same time widening my eyes in innocent inquiry. And I saw him waver. “And how do I address you, sir?”
“I am William de Wykeham. And you, I suspect, are no wiser.”
I smiled deliberately. Winsomely. How best to seduce information from a man than to get him to talk of what was important to him? I had learned that from both Janyn and Greseley. Talk about money and rates of interest and they would eat out of your hand. “I am no wiser yet,” I replied. “But I will be if you will be my informant. What do I call you? What do you do?”
“Wykeham will do. I serve His Majesty. And occasionally Her Majesty, Queen Philippa.” And I saw the pride in him. “I am destined for the church—and to build palaces.”
“Oh.” It seemed a laudable occupation, if not very exciting. “Have you built many?”
And that was it. The door opened wide. Wykeham proceeded for the rest of the journey to tell me of his ambitions and achievements. Turrets and arches, buttresses and pillars. Curtain walls and superior heating methods. Holy Virgin! He was as dull as a meatless meal in Lent, as incapable of luring a nun from her vows as Janyn Perrers or Greseley. Perhaps all men in essence were as dry as dust. What I wanted to hear of was the minutiae of life in a royal palace, the food, the fashio
ns, the important personages, and all I got was a description of the new tower at Windsor. Still, I made no effort to deter him. Were all men so easy to encourage into conversation? Far easier than women, I thought. A smile, a question, an appeal to their achievements, their pride, was all it took. I learned very little about life at Havering, but much about castle building. And then, the two hours passing rapidly enough, we were approaching an impressive array of towers, half-hidden in the trees.
“Your journey is at an end, Mistress Alice. And I had forgot.…” Transferring his reins into one hand, Wykeham fished into his saddlebag. “Her Majesty sent you this. She thought you might like it—to give you God’s comfort on the journey.” He dropped the rosary into my hand. “Not that I think you need it. You can talk more than any woman I know.…”
I was instantly torn between amazement at the gift of the rosary and the unfairness of the accusation; the unfairness won.
“You’ve done more talking than I have!”
“Nonsense!”
“Stop fussing, woman!” Rob gave a rough growl. “You’re as fret as a flea on a warm dog!”
I laughed. “I ache!”
“Your arse’ll recover soon enough. My sides are stripped raw with your clutchings!”
Even Wykeham laughed. “And I expect you’re thirsty.” A flask was found in his saddlebag and he handed it over. The wine, too warm for pleasure but of a quality I had never drunk before, even better than Janyn’s, eased my suddenly dry throat. I was at the end of my journey, and what awaited me remained a mystery.
“Why would she send me something so precious?” I held the rosary up so that the sun caught the beads, turning them into a rainbow of iridescence.
My companion surveyed me, from my cloth-bound hair to my mud-smeared hem, as if it were far beyond his comprehension too. “I really have no idea.”
Nor did I.
Chapter Four
Havering-atte-Bower. I knew nothing of royal palaces in those days when I arrived in Wykeham’s dusty wake. Nor was the grandeur of the place my first priority. Every muscle in my body groaned at its ill usage. We could not come to a halt fast enough for me; all I wanted was to slide down from that lumbering creature and set my feet on solid ground. But once we were in the courtyard at Havering, I simply sat and stared.
“Are you going to dismount today, mistress?” Wykeham’s tone was lacking in compassion. “What’s wrong with you?” He was already dismounted and halfway up the steps to the huge iron-studded door.
“I’ve never seen…” He wasn’t listening, so I closed my mouth.
I have never seen anything so magnificent.
The palace was strangely welcoming, owning a seductive charm that St. Mary’s with its gray-stone austerity lacked. It seemed vast to me, though I was to learn that for a royal palace it was small and intimate. The stonework of the building glowed in the afternoon sunshine, a haphazard arrangement of rooms and apartments, the arches of a chapel to the right, the bulk of the original Great Hall to my left, then further outbuildings, sprawling in all directions from the courtyard. Roofs and walls jutted at strange angles as the whim had taken the builders over the years. And if that were not enough, the whole palace was hemmed about by pasture and lightly wooded stretches like a length of green velvet wrapped ’round a precious jewel.
It filled me with awe.
“It’s beautiful!”
My voice must have carried. “It’ll do, for now,” Wykeham growled. “The King’s grandfather built it—the first Edward. The Queen likes it—that’s the main thing—it’s her manor. It will be better when I’ve had my hands on it. I’ve a mind to put in new kitchens now that the King has his household here too.” He fisted his hands on his hips. “For God’s sake, woman. Get off that animal.”
I sat where I was. The ground looked far away. “I need help.”
“Then let Rob…”
I ignored the snort of amusement from the groom, who had made no attempt to aid me.
“I suppose, sir, I am too far below you to expect you to help me to dismount.” I was all demure insouciance, except for the tilt of my chin.
“Yes. You are.” But Wykeham’s mouth twitched as he stomped back to my side. “And I suspect you are a baggage! Where did you learn that, enclosed in a nunnery?”
“I have been married,” I informed him, hinting nothing of its brevity or its lack.
“Then that must account for it.”
I did not think so. I think my wit—its immediacy—had always been there, hidden away until I had the freedom to be myself. With a hand to my arm, he helped me to slide from the animal’s broad rump as adeptly as I could manage.
“Thank you, sir.” I held on tight for a moment as my muscles quivered in protest.
“I am at your disposal. Tell me when you can stand without falling over!”
I loosed my grip with a pert smile for the irony.
Wykeham led the way up the shallow flight of steps, pushing open the door and stepping into the Great Hall. It was an echoing space, tables and trestles cleared away for the day except for the solid board on the dais at the far end. Cool after the heat of the sun, it was a pleasant place to be, the rafters above my head merging into deep shadows striped with soft bars of sunlight, like the coat of a tabby cat. Servants moved quietly, purposefully replacing the candles in the wall sconces. A burst of laughter came from behind the screens at the far end that closed off the entrance to the kitchens. The tapestries on the walls glowed with rich color, mirrored in the tiles beneath my feet. A maidservant crossed the room, busy with a tray of cups and a flagon, with a brief curtsy in Wykeham’s direction.
My eye followed her.
Was this, then, to be my destiny? To work in the kitchens of the royal palace? But why? Did the Queen not have enough servants? If she needed more, would her steward not find enough willing girls from the neighboring villages? I could not see why she would bring me all the way from the Abbey to be a serving wench. Perhaps she needed a tire-woman, one who could read and write, but, remembering Lady Marian, I could hardly claim the breeding for it. So why, in the name of the Blessed Virgin, was I here? Countess Joan had been cruelly quick to reject my offered services: The Queen would hardly stand in need of my meager talents.
“This way…” Wykeham was striding ahead. “Don’t stand daydreaming!”
Behind us in the doorway a commotion erupted, enough to make my nerves jump and skitter like rats in a trap. Both Wykeham and I, and everyone in the Hall, turned to look.
A man had entered to stand under the door arch. He was illuminated, silhouetted, by the low rays of the afternoon sun so that it was impossible to see his features, only his stature and bearing. Tall, was my first impression, with the build of a soldier, a man of action. Around his feet pushed and jostled a pack of hounds and alaunts. On his gauntleted wrist rode a hooded goshawk.
As the hawk shook its pinions, the man moved forward a step, into the power of a direct beam, so that he gleamed with a corona of light around his head and shoulders like one of the saints in the glazed windows of the Abbey. Crowned with gold. I simply stared.
Then, as he took another step, the moment passed. He was enclosed in soft shadow, an ordinary man again. And I was distracted when the hounds bounded forward, circling the Hall, sniffing at my skirts. I had no knowledge of such boisterous animals and automatically stepped back, wary of sharp teeth and formidable bodies. Oblivious to my discomfort, Wykeham bowed whilst I was engaged in pushing aside an inquisitive alaunt.
Wykeham cleared his throat in warning.
“What is it?” I asked.
In reply he took hold of the ancient cloak that still enveloped me from chin to toe and twitched it off, letting it fall to the floor. I stiffened at this presumptuous action and took a breath to remonstrate when a voice of command, a strikingly beautiful one, cut across the width of the Hall.
“Wykeham, by God! Where’ve you been? Why are you always impossible to find, man?”
It
was a clear-timbred voice, filling the space from walls to rafters. And striding toward us was the owner. The man with the raptor.
Wykeham bowed again, with what could have been construed as a scowl in my direction, so I accepted the wisdom of curtsying. The newcomer looked to me like a huntsman who had strayed into the Hall after a day’s exercise to find a cup of ale or a heel of bread. He covered the ground with long loping strides, as lithe as the hound at his side.
And then he was standing within a few feet of me.
“Sire!” Wykeham bowed once more.
The King!
I sank to the floor, holding my skirts, my flushed face hidden. How naive I was. But how was I to know? Why did he not dress like a king? Then I looked up and saw him not a score of feet distant, and knew that he did not need clothing and jewels to proclaim his superiority. What a miraculous, godlike figure he was. A man of some age and experience, but he wore the years lightly. He was handsome without doubt, with a broad brow and a fine blade of a nose complemented by luxurious flaxen hair that shone as bright as silver. Here was no dry-as-dust dullard. The King shone like a diamond amongst worthless dross.
“It’s the water supply!” the King announced.
“Yes, Sire. I have it in hand,” Wykeham replied calmly.
“The Queen needs heated water.…”
The King’s complexion might once have been fair, but his skin was tanned and seamed from an outdoor life in sun and cold. What a remarkable face he was blessed with, with blue eyes as keen as those of the raptor on his fist, whose hood he was removing. And what a fluidity and grace there was about his movements, as he unclipped his cloak, one-handed, swung it from his shoulder, and threw it to a page who had followed him across the Hall. How had I not known that this was King Edward? At his belt was a knife in a jeweled scabbard, in his hat a ruby brooch pinning a peacock feather into jaunty place. Even without the glitter of gems, I should have known. He had a presence, the habit of command, of demanding unquestioning obedience.
So this was Queen Philippa’s magnificent husband. I was dazzled.