by Anne O'Brien
“What about John?” I asked with false sweetness. “What does your new law say that a bastard—even a royal one—is entitled to wear?” I knew my humor had an unpleasant edge, but what woman would not dislike being set aside for a discussion of sumptuary laws?
And the temper died, as I had intended. “By God, Alice! I miss you. I forget to laugh when you are not with me.”
And I reached up to touch the lines beside his eyes, regretting their presence. “I miss making you laugh.”
“Never doubt that I want you back at Court.”
Then he was gone, leaving me with much to think about that was unsettling. Not so much my own circumstances, which were still far from certain in my eyes, but the events that were putting the King under so great a strain.
I returned to Court as circumspectly as I left. Who should be the first to cross my path, to grasp the chance to put me in my place, if for any reason I misread my strange status in the royal household, but Isabella, who was crossing the courtyard from chapel to hall—just as gloriously beautiful and as querulous as I recalled. And quite as extravagant: The gown on her back and the jewels at her throat would have ransomed King John himself back to France, if he were still alive. No change here. In my absence no one had managed to wed her and carry her off to nuptial bliss. I was sorry.
She changed direction like one of Edward’s ships under full sail, and came to block my path as I climbed the steps.
“So you’re back with us.” Her lip curled.
I took a few more steps before I curtsied. I did it well. The steps gave me an advantage of height over her.
“We haven’t missed you.” She eyed me. “Your looks haven’t improved—although your figure has, I expect.”
Her smile was thin, her demeanor haughty. The ladies, a little knot of the Queen’s damsels who accompanied her, did not try to hide their amusement at my expense. So this was to be the tone of my life if Isabella had her way, mocked and ridiculed and despised. But I had grown daring in my absence and by Edward’s visit. I felt strong and would not be provoked. I stood my ground, waited. Sometimes there is strength in silence.
“Nothing to say, Mistress Perrers?” Isabella cooed. “That’s unlike you! And where is the bastard? Does he look like my father? Or one of the scullions perhaps?”
A declaration of war. I was provoked, after all.
“Your brother is well cared for, my lady. In His Majesty’s manor at Ardington.”
I had left John behind. How difficult that was. But it was necessary, and Edward had established a nursery for him with his own servants, a nurse and governess. He would lack for nothing. I had kissed him and promised never to abandon him. Now I used my height advantage against the Princess, chin raised. “He is a true Plantagenet. His Majesty is much taken with him.”
Isabella’s nostrils flared. The damsels held their collective breath.
“Airs and graces, Mistress Perrers. How ambitious you are. What do you hope for? A title? A rich marriage on the back of my father’s misplaced generosity?”
I replied without inflection. Oh, I was far surer of myself now. “I hope for nothing but respect and recognition for my services, my lady.”
Anger lay bright on her, the jewels glinting at her sharp inhalation. Isabella opened her mouth to reply with a stream of invective, but we were disturbed, a group of courtiers entering the courtyard from the direction of the stable block. Loud and well satisfied after a vigorous hunt, the gentlemen bowed. I heard Isabella’s little intake of breath, saw a stiffening in her spine as her attention was arrested, her expression softening. She smiled.
Duly interested, I observed the group to see who had been honored with the Princess’s wayward admiration. Whoever it was, I doubted it would come to more than a passing flirtation. It would have to be a man of character to put a curb rein on Isabella. Had she not refused every suitor offered to her, a positive string of the highborn sons of Europe? I could see no response to her in this group of gentlemen, who were all more intent on the excitement of the kill. The courtiers moved off, the damsels following.
“Jesu! He’s good to look at.” She forgot who I was. Her eyes followed the departing figures.
“Who?”
“Him!”
At the door one of the knights looked back over his shoulder toward us, but then, with no more acknowledgment than a nod of his undoubtedly handsome head, followed the rest. He seemed to me to be very young.
“I don’t know him.”
“How should you?” Isabella’s scowl was ferocious. She had remembered again. “You’d better go and remind the Queen of your existence. She has a new damsel since your departure. You may find you’re not as indispensable as you’d like to think. Take care, Mistress Perrers!”
“I am always careful, my lady.”
But her blow had struck home. My fears bloomed large again. At the royal whim, I and my son could be rendered destitute. I would never forget sitting in the parlor of the King’s little manor at Ardington, wondering where I would be the next day, the next week. I was nothing, had nothing, without the goodwill of my lover and my lover’s wife.
Isabella flounced off, while I caught up with the damsels to discover who had taken the Princess’s fancy. Enguerrand de Coucy: one of the knights who had come to England in the retinue of the ill-fated King John of France during his captivity, and still here, unsure of his welcome if he returned to the land of his birth. Was he a suitable mate for Edward’s daughter? I doubted it. But if she wed him and de Coucy succeeded in returning to France, taking his new wife with him…
I hoped Isabella achieved her heart’s desire.
The Queen sat in her solar, her embroidery unstitched in her lap, as I sank to my knees before her, unable to look at her. A silence played out, ominous, full of presentiment.
“Alice.”
“Yes, my lady.” Nothing to read in that. Her embroidery slid to the floor. My fingers curled slowly into fists as I waited.
“You have returned.”
“Yes, my lady.” My knees quivered with the strain of kneeling, but I tensed my muscles to show no weakness.
“Where is the child?” Her voice was harsh, and I remembered how she had ordered me from her presence.
“At Ardington, my lady.”
Then Philippa’s hands were stretched to cup my cheeks. “Look at me! Oh, I have longed to see you, Alice!”
My eyes flew to her face, where tears tracked their silvered path.
“My lady…” It shocked me to see such overt grief.
“Forgive me,” she whispered. “I was cruel. I know it—and it was not your fault, but I couldn’t…” Her explanation dried. “You do understand, don’t you?”
“Yes, my lady.”
For of course I did. I kissed her distressingly swollen fingers, rescued the stitchery, and helped her to dry the tears, all as a good domicella should. She had aged in my absence, but still she could manage a watery smile that wrung my heart. And so I slid back into my place in Philippa’s household as easily and smoothly as a trout into a cooking pot of boiling water. Philippa—kindly, suffering Philippa—kissed my cheek, asked after my son, gave me an embroidered robe for the babe, and presented me with a bolt of red silk for a new gown.
In private, Edward enfolded me in his arms and kissed me with Plantagenet fervor. “It has been a long time, Alice.”
“But now I have returned to you.”
“And you won’t leave.”
“Not unless you send me away.”
“I’ll not do that. I’ve been too long without you.”
Too long. I had missed him more than I had thought possible. It was balm to my soul to be kissed and caressed and loved in Edward’s bed.
Isabella left us. Isabella, headstrong and in love, flirted, flounced, cajoled de Coucy, and defied her father in equal measure. De Coucy looked unconvinced at his good fortune in becoming the apple of Isabella’s eye, perhaps wishing he were elsewhere. To wed an English princess was one
thing; to take on Isabella and her formidable father was quite another.
“He’s too young, too unimportant,” Edward said, refusing her first request.
“Why can’t you do something useful!” Isabella snarled privately in my direction. “You have the use of much of my father’s body! Surely you have his ear as well! Persuade him, for God’s sake!”
It pleased me to refuse with profound grace, merely to ruffle her royal feathers. “I fear that I am unable to do that, my lady.”
For the King, with or without my interference, would make his own decisions. And he did. Recognizing a lost cause, Edward clamped a tight hold on his true feelings about the match and gave de Coucy the title of Duke of Bedford, made him a knight of the Garter to tie him to English interests, and silently wished the Frenchman well of her. They were wed in the felicitous month of July at Windsor Castle, with all the pomp and splendor that Isabella could persuade her father to pay for. By November they had taken themselves off to France.
“I hope you are no longer here when I next visit,” she said to me before she left. Marriage had not sweetened Isabella’s tongue.
“I wouldn’t wager Edward’s magnificent wedding gift on it!” I could hide my insecurities with great finesse, or even coarse wagering, when I had to.
Isabella managed the ghost of a smile. “Neither would I. A lifetime’s annuity and a king’s ransom in jewels are not to be risked on a certainty. I might even miss your sharp tongue, Alice Perrers.”
Well, well. Was this some manner of a compliment?
“I’ll pray you don’t breed any more bastards,” the Princess added.
No. Her final sally was not friendly, but I might even miss her, I decided as the year slid toward its end. The Court lacked a vibrancy on her departure. For both Philippa and Edward, I gathered my resources to relight the flame.
The year of 1366: It would not be forgotten in a hurry. We had a bad winter, appallingly bad, to bring suffering and worry and grief to the Court as well as to the commons. A hard frost kept us shivering from September to April, curtailing most of Edward’s attempts to set up a hunt, hurling him into an uncharacteristically somber mood. Philippa’s joints ached beyond tolerance, so much so that she kept to her bed. The approach of her death kept her occupied more and more as the days passed. Isabella might have brought some light into her shadowed existence, but Isabella was embracing motherhood in France. Edward was little help to Philippa, wrapped in his own melancholy.
Through those difficult months I tried my best to woo Edward from his moody silences. Would he read? No. Would he have me read to him? No. Play chess or the foolishness of Nine Men’s Morris? Would he take out the hawks on foot along the riverbank, even if it was too dangerous for the horses on the impacted ground? Would he don skates and take exercise on the Thames like the rest of the frustrated and icebound Court?
“Come and play.” I smiled, hoping to engage him in some lighthearted companionship as the sun consented to put in an appearance. “You can leave these documents and give me some of your time.”
“Go away, Alice,” he growled. “I have too much on my trencher to be reading and skating!”
I knew when I was beaten. So I went. I learned to skate and laughed with delight. I was still young and enjoyed the exhilaration.
I lured Edward to his bed on the coldest days, but he was not to be roused. He might kiss me but his manhood refused to be enticed—his mind was far distant from me. I wrapped him in my arms and read to him from Geoffrey of Monmouth’s fine book about the kings of England, selecting the tales of King Arthur—until he closed the book and refused to hear any more about heroes with magic swords. He took himself off to badger Wykeham for news of his latest building schemes. Even that interest was halfhearted.
I could not blame him and bore no grudges. Had I not learned my lesson, that I did not always come first with a man of such grave responsibilities? For the King had reason enough for the blackness that wrapped his soul like a shroud. My heart ached for him. For the Prince, his glorious son and heir, lord of Aquitaine, had persuaded Edward to finance a campaign to reinstate Pedro of Castile, who had been deposed by his subjects. A risky project in the depths of winter, as Edward was well and truly warned by Wykeham—invasion would be a grievous mistake—but, like the King of old, he grasped at the chance to be conqueror once more, forced a war budget through Parliament, raised an army, and handed authority over this invading force to another warlike son, John of Gaunt. He, together with the Prince invading from Aquitaine, would bring a solution to Castile’s inheritance problems and glory to England.
“What do you think, Alice?” Edward asked as I sat at his feet before the fire in his chamber, although I think he did not care what I thought. He sipped gloomily from a cup of ale, and I sought for something to cheer him.
“I think you are the most powerful king in Christendom.”
“Will England be victorious?”
“Of course.”
“Will I still be seen as the man who holds the power in Europe in his fist?”
He raised his hand and clenched it, the tendons proud against the flesh. Age pressed particularly heavily on him that night. In the shadows the pale gold of his hair was entirely eclipsed by dull gray.
“Undoubtedly you will.”
He smiled. “You are good for me, Alice.”
I took the rigid fist, smoothed out the fingers between my own, and kissed them, aware of my ignorance and deficiencies as king’s counselor. What did I know of the state of England’s authority over the sea? Very little, but we were all to learn the truth over the coming weeks.
The King should have listened to Wykeham.
Our invading forces, beset by storms and gales and a shortage of food, were reduced to a fifth of their original size, with no booty or prisoners to compensate. Sitting in his chamber or pacing the halls of Havering, Edward could do nothing to determine events except to rely on his sons to uphold the English cause. Inactivity gnawed at him day and night. Why did he not go himself, to lead as he once had done? Because he too saw the waning of his powers. The future was with his sons, and it hurt him, seeing the end of his glory. However hard I tried through that winter, I could not heal the wounds for him.
As for English affairs in Ireland, they seemed likely to sink to their death into the famous bog. Edward’s son Lionel scrabbled at an impossible settlement, reducing Edward to vicious oaths against his son’s ineptitude.
Philippa despaired and wept.
And I? How did I fare? Did we, Edward and I, emerge from the morass of black despair? Holy Virgin! It was balanced on a knife’s edge, and I could have lost everything, for we faced a crisis that was, I admit, of my own deliberate making.
Frustrated with the cold rooms of Havering, in a fit of pique Edward departed to Eltham at the turn of the year, and at Philippa’s insistence we moved also, the whole Court, to be with Edward.
“You’ll see,” she fretted as her possessions were packed around her, setting her teeth against the prospect of a painful journey in a litter, however luxurious the cushions. “Eltham has more space. He feels hemmed in here. And we must hear good news from Gascony soon. We can’t leave him to brood. It does him no good.”
But, despite the new planned gardens and Edward’s own pride in the newly planted vineyard, Edward brooded in the spacious accommodations at Eltham as effectively as he had at Havering. He roared through the halls and audience chambers, patient with no one except Philippa, insisting on taking out the hounds, hard ground or no, snarling at the grooms when they were slow to deal with icy fingers and frozen leather. He snarled at me too.
“Come with me,” he snapped. “I want you with me!”
He kept me waiting, shivering in the cold outside the stables, while he listened to a report of a courier just ridden in. Only the week before he had given me a mantle of sables, wrapping my naked body in his gift in a moment of brittle good humor. I wore it now, but I might have been wearing the lightest of silk fo
r all the good it did to keep me warm in the bitter wind.
“Let’s go!” he ordered, his temper on as short a leash as the hounds. “What are you waiting for?”
“Her Majesty is not well, my lord. I should be with her.” It was not quite an excuse. The journey to Eltham had stirred her joints to a new level of agony. Sleep for her was a distant memory without a draft of poppy.
“We’ll be back before noon.”
“Jesu! It’s too cold for this,” I murmured.
“Then don’t come. I’ll not force you.” He swung up into the saddle. The courier’s news had not pleased him.
For a moment I considered accepting his surly irritability and leaving him to his ill humor. Then perversely I joined the hunt. I regretted it, of course, returning with damp hems and frozen feet and mud-splattered skirts. My blood felt sluggish in my veins. Nor had the hunt been a success. We put up nothing for the hounds, everything of sense having gone to ground. We were frozen to the bone and Edward in no better mood.
He had spoken not one word to me—other than to “keep up, for God’s sake”—when we galloped after a scent that proved to be as ephemeral as the King’s good temper. Back at the palace, our steaming horses led away to the stables, I trailed after him as Edward stripped off gloves and hood and heavy cloak, thrusting them into my arms as he strode into the Great Hall as if I were his body servant. Without even a glance in my direction, he raised his hand, a royal summons, without courtesy.
Rebellion spiked my blood. Was this all I was to him, a servant to fetch and carry and obey unspoken orders? I halted, my arms full of muddy cloak. It was only when Edward had crossed the antechamber to the staircase leading up to the royal apartments that he realized my footsteps were not following him. He halted, spun ’round. Even at that distance I could see that his jaw was rigid.