The King's Mistress (38 page)

“Then we shall announce the sad news so that all may pray for Maud’s soul’s salvation and mourn her.” Queen Philippa promised requiem Masses throughout the realm.

Blanche agreed, ever anxious to bring ease to those around her, particularly her mother-in-law, and understanding her role. Now as I stood below, gazing up at her in the stands, I saw how pinched and pale Blanche was, listless in her gestures, and how often she sank down onto her seat even though all the others stood blocking her view of her husband and his fellow knights of the Garter on the field. My heart went out to her. I was not the only one who suffered in the strictures of court life. But the royal family knew well how to hide their pain.

I remembered how I had thought them the stuff of legends, and felt a fool to have imagined one of them might cherish me as his beloved.

Later that day I stole an hour from my duties to be with Geoffrey, who had arrived the previous day in the company of the Countess of Ulster.

“You shall be in Ireland soon,” I said, thinking of William, “with your lord.”

“Perhaps not. I think it more likely I shall remain here, with those who oversee Lionel’s estates.” He laughed at my expression of sympathy. “In truth, I am relieved. I am good friends with several of the king’s knights-of-the-chamber and have hopes of joining His Grace’s household as an esquire.” He peered at me closely and added, “I hear say you might also exert some influence with the king? Is it true, Alice? Are you his mistress of the hawks and the bedchamber?”

I bowed my head, my dismay about my naïveté too fresh.

He put his hands on my shoulders and bent closer to see my expression. “You are not happy?”

Unable to escape his curious eyes, I lifted my head. He made a sympathetic sound and caught one of the tears rolling down my cheeks.

“I have been such a fool, Geoffrey. I have lost my honor to a man of whom I could never be worthy, yet I’d flattered myself that he loved me.”

“What is this nonsense, Alice? The king must consider you worthy, for he chose you above all other women at court. Are you still thinking of Criseyde?”

“Yes. More than ever.” I lifted a sleeve to show him—silk with pearls stitched to form a vine. Edward’s pearls. “My magnificent robes.”

“Hardly magical. But I do see, I do.” To my surprise and comfort Geoffrey held me, silent for once. At least
he
still counted me a friend, and I loved him for it.

O
N THE
fourth day William approached as I walked in the garden with the de Roët sisters.

“Might we speak alone?”

I could not decipher his tone.

As ever giddy in the presence of a handsome knight, the girls urged me to attend him.

I noticed how travel-worn William looked as we searched for a quiet place in which to talk. We found a seat in a hedge that hid us from view. He studied my face as if learning my features by heart.

“You departed in such a temper,” I said. “You left court?”

He grunted. “Riding until I could ride no longer. Drinking until
I could drink no more. Cursing the king. Cursing myself for waiting until we had known one another longer. Did you not understand that we pledged our troth, Alice? That you are my wife?”

“That is not true. I promised you nothing.”

His jaw muscles revealed how he worked to control his emotion. “Do you not love me then, Alice?” His handsome face was clouded by indignation. He did not wait for my response. His hands tightened around mine. “Do you truly love him?”

“I do, William, beyond all other men.”

His face twisted with emotion and he bowed his head for a moment, fighting for composure. Tension charged the air between us.

I tried to think of a way to end our confrontation but suddenly he straightened, his expression carefully neutral.

“He will tire of you. We’ve but to wait.”

I might have laughed at his inept wooing were I not still aware of the tension with which he held himself. That is what the gallant William had resolved during his riding and drinking—that the king would tire of me. He expected me to be grateful that he meant to wait for me.

“Do not wait for me, William. I release you from that vow. My destiny is in the king’s hands.”

“I will have you, Alice. You are my wife.”

He moved toward me as if to kiss me, but footsteps approaching halted him.

“I am
not
your wife, William,” I said as quietly as my frustration permitted.

“I shall tell the king that we are betrothed, and that I will be waiting for you,” he insisted.

“You must do nothing of the sort, William.” He could not be such an innocent as to think that such a declaration would find favor with Edward. What was his game? Edward had said that if he tired of me, he would find me a husband. But I doubted he would share me with another before that. Nor would I want him to. “His Grace says he will not tire of me. He would not receive your words with pleasure, your implication that he will not be steadfast.”

Shaking his head, William chuckled in the cold way of someone who thinks he has caught another out. “He is an old man desperate to grasp at youth, Alice. The first time he fails to complete the act, he will discard you to soothe his pride. But I’ll say nothing. You must get a message to me at once when that day comes. You shall always know where I am.”

“Do not wait for me, William. Marry another.” And God help her.

We parted then. Pippa and Katherine asked so many questions I laughingly told them they made me dizzy, but in truth I was irritated by the exchange with William. He was an arrogant bully. I yearned for a husband—but the man I yearned for was not William but rather the impossible, Edward, free and asking me to wed him. Though I danced with William several times over the next few days—to refuse might have invited curiosity—we had little chance to talk and my feelings about him remained uneasy. He behaved as if he had claim to me, as if he had heard nothing I’d said.

But Edward, my home, my anchor, was soon of more concern to me than William. I began to notice much talk among the royal family of the king’s decision to give his elder sons parts of his kingdom to govern. The women believed it to be a sign that, just as Philippa’s mind was focused on her imminent death, so was Edward’s, though he showed no outward sign of illness.

“Father is old,” said his daughter Isabella one evening. “As with our mother, so with him. They are preparing to pass on.”

The queen had retired for the evening and the women of her family, as well as many of those of us who waited on them, had lingered in the queen’s great chamber, exhausted yet wakeful.

Princess Joan glanced at me with a teasing look and did not join in with the desultory comments about how seldom Edward had danced or how he’d required rest after participating in the tournament. I was deeply troubled by such talk. I had been so occupied with my duties for the queen and dread of William’s possible retaliation that I had not noticed my love’s condition.

When the others rose to retire for the evening, Joan stayed behind and motioned for me to do likewise.

“Isabella and Elizabeth seem to be unaware that the king lies with you,” she said, laughing. “If they knew, surely one of them would have said something, or at least glanced your way.”

“What of Blanche?”

Joan rose and warmed her hands over the brazier. “Blanche knows, I am certain, but does not care to think about it.”

“My lady, why are you telling me this?”

“For friendship’s sake, and do call me Joan when we are alone, Alice. We are friends, are we not?”

“I am honored to call you friend. And Joan.”

“Good! It is not true, is it, that the king looks toward his death?”

“I have heard no such talk from him.” I tried to speak with confidence, but something in my expression or posture betrayed my fear.

“You must practice to hide your feelings, Alice. The knives at court are sharp and seldom sheathed. Have a care.”

“I am out of my depth, Joan.”

She poured us both some wine and, sitting down beside me, put an arm round me in a brief hug. “I am fond of you, Alice, and so I wish to give you the advice that you need, not having had the advantage of being brought up in the court. The king has been indiscreet about you. How Isabella and Elizabeth have not heard of your relationship I cannot imagine, but I think soon most of them will know. And then they will envy you. Envy is an ugly emotion. It inspires cruelty. Meanness.”

I crossed myself. “Sometimes I am so frightened, I cannot bear it.”

“And more often you are delighted to bask in the glow of his love, are you not?”

I nodded, reluctantly. It was true.

“He is a wonderful man, beloved of his people—including most of the court. So is the queen. If aught goes wrong, you are one of the people who will be blamed. Because you have no connections. Because he loves you. And the king is impetuous. I do not say you are the only one they will blame. They will call down one of his sons as well—not my Edward, for he is a hero and the future king.”

“What then must I do?”

“Revel in your love, but keep your eyes open. At all times remember who you are, where you are, who he is. Find and nurture a few trustworthy friends. But do not blindly trust them. Nor should you blindly trust the king. He is a man, as William Wyndsor is a man. Your William is angry, I noticed that. He may yet be your salvation if aught goes wrong, but if you wed him, try to keep some of your property secret. Just in case.”

God forbid
. I did not like her referring to
my
William, but Dame Agnes had often chided me for arguing with someone who was offering useful advice, so I did not contradict her.

“Is this how you live?” I asked.

She sipped her wine, staring out into the dark room. “Yes. I have always followed the love in my heart, but with my eyes wide open. My father, Edmund, was executed for his loyalty to his half brother, my Edward’s grandfather. Executed by the lover of Isabella, my husband’s
grandmother. As a child I heard many refer to my father’s shortcomings, especially his loyalty, as if he had been at fault and deserved to die. Most people live according to fear, not love. My father was fearless in his love for his brother. He was also a loving father, always had time for me. He remembered everything I told him.” She was close to tears.

“You are safe now, as princess.”

She shook her head. “No, Alice, I am not. My dear Edward is a child in some things and has a temper like your William. Like the king.”

“He is not
my
William. I have made that clear to him.”

Joan shrugged.

“You have given me much to think about,” I said.

“Good. It is offered in love.” She embraced me again, and then rose and swept from the room with a rustle of silk.

I remained in the chamber, staring at the brazier, thinking about all that Joan had said. The details were new, but not the warning. I had been naïve in praying that I might trust Edward—or anyone—completely. I resolved to follow Joan’s guidance.

A
FTER THE
guests departed we removed to Eltham, where the royal households could rest after the celebrations. On the day after we arrived, an Italian priest, Dom Francisco, arrived. Philippa had us dress her to receive him despite her obvious exhaustion from the journey and extreme pain—she was so unbalanced in her
gait that we all feared she had exacerbated her old injury, for nothing now seemed to ease her discomfort and she struggled to straighten up. I shortened her hem in front and we moved her headdress a little farther back on her head to mask how far forward she pitched as she walked. Her dignity and gentle behavior while suffering such pain were an inspiration.

She and Edward were sequestered with Dom Francisco for the best part of the day, and afterward they assembled all the household who might be spared from their work to join them in prayer in the king’s chapel. It seemed to be a requiem Mass for a man of the Church, but we were not told who. Edward knelt with head bowed, often covering his eyes with one hand. Philippa was her usual subdued, pious self at her devotions; she did not seem personally moved by the proceedings. Whoever had died, it was Edward who was in deep mourning. The priest alluded to the deceased being of royal blood. It caused quite a stir in both households, but that was nothing compared with my own churning thoughts. For, of course, I wondered whether it was Isabella’s precious one who had died, the one for whom so many Perrers had died, someone in Italy, the person whom Edward had once invited to join his traveling party, the one rumored to have been his deposed father. If this were so, I might now at last be free to leave court.