by Anne O'Brien
“Have you shared a bed with many women?” I asked bluntly.
“Yes.” He lifted his cup in a silent toast. “Does it matter?”
“No.”
“I won’t ask you the same.”
“No.” I sighed a little. “But I was a virgin when I went to Edward’s bed.” And wished I had not brought the specter of the King into the room. I grimaced mildly. “Forgive me.…”
“It’s not easy, is it, Alice?” He touched my hand with such understanding that my heart lurched.
“No. It is not.” Nothing in my life had been easy.
“We knew it would not be. This day is ours. We’ll not let others intrude.”
We consummated our union in time-honored fashion, between the lavender-scented linen of Windsor’s bed—what an efficient housekeeper he had acquired. How thoughtful he had been of my comfort—and for a soldiering man, astonishingly so. And how careful he was with me, an unexpected gentleness. Until his energies got the best of him, and he approached the task of disrobing me like initiating a campaign against the Irish: with a wealth of cunning and stealth to destroy all barriers. Not that there were any real obstacles to overcome between us. Were we not both experienced? Only my own unusual, unsettling reticence held me back.
“Alice…!” I had felt my muscles stiffen as he unfastened the lacing on my gown, letting his fingers trail across my nape. “You are allowed to enjoy this.”
“I know. It’s just that…”
“I know what it is.…You think too much. Let me seduce your mind as well as your body.” His breath was warm, his lips soft along the line of my shoulder.
“You don’t know any poetry,” I managed on an intake of breath as he kissed the sensitive skin below my ear.
“But I do know how to use my lips for other purposes than mouthing meaningless sentiments. Like this…”
He was inordinately successful.
I did not compare him with Edward. I did not. I would not. There were no ghosts there with us, not Edward, certainly not Janyn Perrers. As for the nameless, faceless wraiths of Windsor’s ghostly amours, I did not feel even one of them treading on my hem as he led me to the bed.
And then Windsor filled my entire mind. He was a new lover, with new caresses and heart-stopping skills, a resourceful lover whom it would take time to get to know.
As things were, I did not think I had that time.
On a practical note—a very necessary one—I took care to protect myself with the old wives’ nostrum of a carefully positioned fold of wool soaked in cedar gum, messy but essential. It would not do for Windsor to get a child on me, and I bred easily. Were we not, even through our marriage, opening Pandora’s box, allowing the escape of a multitude of dangers? A child would put weapons into the hands of those who did not love me. Besides, I was in no doubt: Whatever censure might be leveled at my own actions, Edward must be protected. I would not carry another child. I would never foist another man’s child on Edward, or brand him as a cuckold.
And Windsor? He understood, and accepted. We both saw the yawning perils of our position, the strange delicacy with which our marriage must be conducted.
I received no bride gift after my wedding night. I did not care. For the first time in my life I had been given a gift that was far more precious than monetary value. I could not yet put a name to it, but I knew its value.
A strange happiness settled within me, like a bird come home to its nest. Physical delight made me languorous. A meeting of minds, as equals—for were we not equal in ambition and talents?—satiated me with pleasure. And so we lived out a little idyll at our manor at Gaines, far from enemies and Court intrigues and the pressures of the world. The few days we snatched away were long and warm, perfect for new lovers.
For that short time I was able to set aside my nagging fears for the future. I laid aside my anxiety over Edward in my absence. He was well cared for. My children were safe and lacked for nothing: I had enough wealth in land to protect them. Why should I not allow myself these few days for my own enjoyment? When had I last done that? I could not recall. Without guilt I wallowed in sheer self-indulgence, as we spoke of the inconsequential things that come to those who share a bed and a creeping, blossoming contentment in each other’s companionship. Certainly nothing of our lives outside the walls of the manor was allowed to intrude. We sat or strolled as the mood took us, rode out in the meadows, ate and drank. Made love, like the young lovers we were not.
Did I regret my precipitate decision? Not for a moment.
Did Windsor? I think not.
When, as it must, my mind began to escape the confines I had set it, to reach out to that other life, there remained a fine solace to my very soul, wrapping around me like a fur on a winter’s morning. When Edward died, God rest his soul, I would not be alone. I would be with this man whom I…
My careless thoughts slammed up against a barrier like a battering ram against a stone buttress. Uninvited, horribly intruding, fear bit deep. The words refused to form in my mind, although my heart urged them on.
With this man whom I had an affection for. That was enough.
Windsor’s caresses awakened my body to an awareness of him that I had not anticipated. As all my earlier reticence was swept away by his experienced touch, I used my skill to make him shiver.
“I told you, you would not regret your decision,” he whispered against my throat. “Why are you always so reluctant to believe what I tell you?”
“Because I know you for a devious man. And you, Will? Do you wish you had never made me that offer?”
“I knew I wanted you from the first moment I saw you. It was merely a matter of timing.”
“Long-term planning.”
“I am a master at it. And I am content.”
I believed him. So was I too content. I would change nothing. But did I wish to commit myself in similar words? It is dangerous to open yourself, body and soul, to a man you barely know and whom you suspect of less than altruistic motives. And yet I did speak them.
“I am content.”
And what did I do? I destroyed this new contentment.
Willfully, wantonly.
Because I was afraid.
Every day I was conscious of the moods of my new husband, learning to read them, learning his interests, learning the workings of his mind. I grew to know his care for me, the tenderness that sometimes undermined all my determination to remain a little aloof, and the fire of passion when we came together within the curtains of his bed. And throughout our rural sojourn, I was conscious of an energy burning deep within him, to be, to do, to act, to be engaged with the world beyond our bedchamber. It burned quite as strongly as the passion. He never spoke of it. He never said a word of his ambition to be elsewhere. And I loved him more for that.…
Love?
My realization of it stole my breath. Too soon, too reckless. Too hazardous. Why would I seek an inner fervor that robbed me of my freedom? I feared it like the plague. I would flee from it if I could.
In the end, honesty took me in hand and I could no longer deny the murmurings of my heart, but it was only to my own innermost thoughts that I spoke the word, savoring it on my tongue. I had hidden my emotions for so long, I was incapable of baring my soul to anyone. I had never done so to Janyn, to whom I was a means to an end. Nor to Edward, who was not interested in my soul. Before God, I could not expose my vulnerability to William de Windsor, who seemed against all the laws of nature to hold my heart in his hands. For if I did, would not that double, treble, quadruple my weakness? Better that I kept my own counsel. Better that I did not give him the power to hurt me. He did not love me. I would not put the power to wound into his hand.
So what did I do to our magical sojourn together? I destroyed it.
Here was my inarguable logic. If I did not destroy it, it would destroy itself, imploding on its inward-turning sweetness. A delight it might be now, but its honeyed intensity would soon rot our teeth. We could not stay together away fro
m the world of the Court, where our ambitions must be played out. Windsor could not; and I had a duty elsewhere. At least this destruction was on my terms, with the hope of a renaissance, a reconciliation at some point and time in the future. My love was not on my terms, because I did not want it, but this decision would be. I would claw back control. Simply to preserve what we had, frozen in that sweet ice, would kill it slowly, for neither of us was made for domesticity, for happiness confined within four walls.
And yet in my heart I yearned for it. What I wanted and what I knew I must not want warred within me. And the victory of common sense near broke my heart.
On our return to Court, separately, discreetly as we must, I went immediately to Edward.
“Alice! Come and play chess with me.…”
He recognized me, welcomed me, defeated my wayward manipulation of my knight against his bishop with a few clever moves that I had been too preoccupied to follow, but I think he did not know that I had been absent for more than a few hours. I talked to him and explained what I wanted him to do. And he did it, accepting the rightness of my advice, signing and sealing the document.
My heart wept and my mind rejoiced at my success.
I took it to Windsor’s room, little more than a passageway, in one of the distant wings. Going there was indiscreet, perhaps, but I chose my time and closed his door at my back, wishing there were another way as I offered the document, stepping no closer. If I did, I might be seduced by the strength of his arms. And if he kissed me…I thrust the document forward between us. “This is what you want, Will.”
He took it, his eye traveling down, then up, his face illuminated with this victory, and I knew that I had done the right thing.
“Ireland!” he said.
“Yes. Ireland.”
“King’s Lieutenant.”
“A valuable office.”
“So you will be rid of me sooner than we thought.”
“Yes.”
He folded the document carefully, his mind suddenly arrested, as I knew it must be. “Is this your doing?”
“No.” I perjured myself without regret.
His glance was sharp. “What made him change his mind?”
“Who’s to say?”
So great was my sense of impending loss that I actually turned to leave him to enjoy his achievement alone.
“Is this difficult for you?” His question stopped me.
To persuade Edward, or to let you go?
And I knew he suspected my hand in it, despite my denial. Our knowledge of each other had grown apace.
“No.” My voice was steady. “Edward needs a man of ability, not a young man barely out of adolescence—and as you so frequently say, who is there but you?”
“You knew it would be like this, Alice.”
“Yes.”
Still, the space yawned between us. He was the one to close it, to kiss me with a familiar echo of the passion I had come to desire.
“It’s what I want, Alice.” Did he think I did not know it? For a brief moment it grieved me that he should desire that distant office more than he desired me, but with his words, the sorrow passed. “I’ll miss you more than I ever thought I could miss a woman.” The wound healed a little, and I pressed my forehead against his shoulder. Until he lifted my chin so he could look at my face. “I’d ask if you’ll miss me…but you’ll never admit to that, will you?”
“No. How can I?” I frowned, caught in the toils of the dilemma I had helped create. He rubbed at the groove between my brows with his fingers.
“What’s this? Guilt?”
“A little,” I admitted. “Perhaps the King’s Concubine is not free to miss you. Perhaps she is not free to have her emotions engaged.”
“Does the King engage them?”
“With friendship. Compassion. Respect. All of those. I will not leave him, Will. I am not free to do so until his death.”
At last the document that would take him from me was cast aside. Windsor’s voice was tender. “Then I would say that the King could have no more loyal subject. And still I say you are free to miss me.”
“Then I will.” I would give him that, at least, and I thrust my guilt away.
His lips were soft on my brow. “Write to me.”
“And risk interception?”
“You don’t have to admit your undying love. Not that you would anyway!”
I laughed softly. We understood each other. “I’ll write.”
We made use of that one snatched opportunity to be together, in Windsor’s sparely furnished room. Our coming together was unsatisfactory, all in all, both of us with our senses stretched against possible discovery, struggling to make the best use of the narrow pallet. Little clothing removed, a hasty coupling—it was a reaffirmation of our commitment to each other rather than an outpouring of passion. And yet I would not have him leave me without experiencing that intimacy once more. How many months would it be before I saw him again?
We exchanged few words. What was there to say?
“Keep safe,” he whispered.
“And you.”
“I’ll keep you in my thoughts, Alice.”
“And you in mine, Will.”
He was gone within the week. I could not put my loss into words; it was too great. He had said he would think of me, which was as much as I could hope for. For the first time in my life I knew what it was to have a broken heart.
How can it be broken! I upbraided my foolishness. It cannot be broken unless you love him. And, of course, you do not! And William de Windsor? I received an unexpected communication from my absent husband within the month. After a brief summary of events in Dublin, he added:
I said that I would miss you, Alice, did I not? I do. You belong to me, and it seems that I belong to you. Keep in good health. I need to know that you are safe for my return, whenever that might be.
It was the closest to poetry that I would ever get from him. It was a precious thing. And yes, I wept.
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 b
e 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.