The King's Mistress (56 page)

When I was breathing with ease, Robert drew his arm away and rose. “Come,” he said, “Gwen waits for you above.” He held out his hand.

I rose into his embrace.

“God was looking to my welfare when he sent you into my life, Robert,” I whispered. “You are my solace and my anchor.” Edward had once been that to me but those days were long gone. I remained tethered to him by the ropes of memory and the demands of his sons. But it was Robert I longed to be with now. From depending on him, trusting him, I had grown to love him.

“I will ever be here, to comfort and steady you,” he promised.

• 1375 to 1376 •

T
HROUGHOUT EDWARD’S
illnesses I remained by his side, sometimes sending for Joan and Jane, finding comfort in their company. It lifted my spirits to see the palaces in which we lived through the curious eyes of my children, to hear their laughter and shouts of delight echoing down the corridors or wafting in through windows. My sweet ones were affectionate toward me but wary of their father, who as often as not thought they were someone else’s little girls.

But Edward never forgot that John was our son. When we had seen him at the Smithfield tournament, John had been warmly affectionate toward his father. In contrast, though he’d spoken politely to me, he’d shown no great affection. Of course, he would be most impressed and proud of his father, the King of England, and it was seemly that a boy be closer to his father than his mother, but I had hoped he would remember how he had loved to rest with me and listen to the stories I wove for him on those lazy afternoons. Since he had joined the Percy household I had seen him only on state occasions or at Christmas, and gradually he had grown distant. Though friends assured me that it was the way with young boys, I feared the Percy clan were poisoning him
against me and prayed I was wrong. He was growing into a handsome young man, looking very like his father. Edward had proudly taken him round to his uncles, aunts, and cousins, declaring, “Undeniably a Plantagenet, eh?”

Geoffrey empathized with me, but gently reminded me that it was no small honor that the king was so proud of our son. “And have I heard correctly that John is to be betrothed to Mary Percy?”

“It is true.” That had, of course, long been in Edward’s mind. But as I now confided to Geoffrey, I had been surprised that Henry Percy had so readily agreed to the betrothal.

“You do not look pleased.”

“I would have been a fool to reject the proposal, for the marriage will elevate my son more than I had hoped possible. Yet I do not care for Mary.” Being my ward, she now lived in my household as one of my children, as John lived among the younger Percys. “At the moment she is a willful, spiteful, and unimaginative child.”

“She is still so young. Surely you might influence her, having her in your care?”

“I can only pray, though she makes it plain she considers us beneath her.” Another problem with the betrothal. And they were
both
still young, too young to be so bound.

I also disliked the fact that Henry Percy was one of John, Duke of Lancaster’s staunchest supporters. I increasingly felt as though all my life was being arranged by Lancaster toward some unknown purpose. I remembered his warning about my needing protection when Edward died, and Edward’s warning that William Wyndsor was John’s man. I imagined that my son’s marrying a Percy might be part of such a scheme, but did not trust the Percy clan. What sort of protection would the marriage provide? And for whom?

The duke continued to promise that he and Prince Edward would ensure that my children and I would be safe from any harm, and that after their father’s death I would be free to withdraw to my estates and live in peace and comfort. It was the frequent repetition of that promise that worried me. And how everyone who crossed my path was so tightly bound to Lancaster.

I
N MAY
of the forty-ninth year of Edward’s reign he would once again approach parliament requesting a tax to raise funds for war. Not only did he need to repay loans made toward his failed attempt
at crossing to France and to rebuild the fleet lost at La Rochelle, but he had also inexplicably begun to believe once again that the crown of France was within his grasp and dreamed of yet another mission across the Channel.

“This time we shall vanquish them, eh, Edward?”

The prince and his brother the duke exchanged uneasy glances.

“Fear not, sweet Alice,” Joan whispered. “Neither of them could sit a horse all the way to Portsmouth. Nor have they a fleet!”

Her words were little comfort, pointing out my beloved’s self-delusion. All who heard this plan would surely wonder at his folly.

In the weeks leading up to the meeting with parliament he was in much better health, the boils having finally faded and his episodes of confusion and weakness having eased. We retired to King’s Langley in late April for a brief respite after the Feast of St. George and before the ordeal with parliament. Edward was riding again, and hawking, though he wisely declined invitations to hunt, too vigorous an activity at his age. Even with this wise caution I could not rest easy, too aware that his confusion and weakness could return at any moment. His love was both a blessing and a curse for I lived only for him, to keep him content and calm.

My suggestion that while parliament sat I should go to Gaynes, my manor near Havering, disturbed him. He did not want me away from him so long.

“I need you, Alice. You complete me.”

We held each other. I, too, felt that we moved as one when together; I had worked hard to learn to anticipate his needs. That he believed it was the natural outgrowth of our love for each other had been a boon, ensuring the success of his sons’ scheme to hide the seriousness of his condition from his subjects. But I craved some peace, some freedom.

I backed out of Edward’s embrace for a moment, stroking his gaunt cheek with the back of my hand, kissing his forehead. “How long could parliament sit, my love? No more than a month, surely. It would not be so long a separation.”

That night we slept naked together, each affectionately exploring the other’s familiar, beloved body. I massaged oils into his joints, his groin. He explored me with his tongue and fingers until I cried out in a bittersweet release. How different was that night from those of our earlier years together. In truth, this felt more like love in some ways
than our lust ever had, for we each sought only to please the other, not ourselves.

In the end he agreed to my plan, and though he did not explain why he had decided I was right, his exhortations for me to hie straight to Gaynes convinced me that he, too, had heard the rumors of expected trouble and thought them plausible.

This anxious time would only grow worse. Richard Lyons sought me out after a meeting with Edward to warn me that one of the most powerful barons of the moment, the Earl of Pembroke, was fomenting anger in the commons against what he called the “court party,” those of us who had shielded Edward from gossip during his episodes of weakness. Of course, by design few knew why we had shielded the king. Here was the public censure I had long feared. It was of no comfort to me that even Lancaster was suspected of supporting the “court party.”

The beauty of the spring garden at King’s Langley dimmed for me. “I will bide at Gaynes while parliament sits. It will be good to be free from court.” I tried to sound resolved. “Perhaps Henry Percy might allow my son to be my guest for a time.”

“Do not count on it. I do not know which barons agree with Pembroke. Or with Mortimer, Earl of March.”

I had my own reason to dread any mention of the Mortimer family. Though Edward had never chosen to tell me
who
had shadowed Janyn and Tommasa for the secret they kept for the dowager queen, I had always suspected the obvious—the Mortimers, who would have been thus exalted to the crown family. They were powerful, as William Wyndsor had learned in Ireland, but not as powerful as they would have been in possession of the bastard son of Roger Mortimer and Queen Isabella. Yet as far as I knew, Richard had no knowledge of this, so I wondered—and worried—at his mentioning Mortimer.

“Why should I worry about the Earl of March?” I asked. “He was brought up by Wykeham. He is hardly my enemy.”

“He is no longer under the bishop’s guidance, Alice. You know that they are furious with Wyndsor over his heavy-handed governing in Ireland. The Earl of March and his friends, who might have been your allies against the commons, will not be looking kindly on you.” Richard had never before mentioned William to me. Now he regarded me with interest, apparently curious to see how I would respond.

“Why should they connect me with William?”

“Is it not true that you are to wed him upon the king’s death?”

A cold hand clutched at my heart. “No!” I cried out, as if to ward off a curse.

“Ah. I did wonder at that.”

“Who said this?”

“Wyndsor. When we met to sign a business agreement. He was insufferably smug.”

“I shall never wed him. Never!”

“You know that Wyndsor will be returning soon, do you not? Nicholas Dagworth is to preside over his investigation.”

“Dagworth? But he is William’s sworn enemy. His Grace knows that.” I had cause to condemn William, but yet believed he had been loyally trying to enforce the law in Ireland in order to assist Edward with his war chest.

With a shrug, Richard said, “That is what I have heard.”

M
Y CONSTANT
Robert headed our small company departing King’s Langley for Gaynes at Upminster in early May. Anticipating my needs as he so often did, he had already fetched Joan and Jane from my sister’s home in London. They lent a gladsome mood to our journey down the Thames that spring afternoon. My son John had arrived by early evening and was to stay for a fortnight; Henry Percy had not forsaken me. I felt blessed and comforted by my children, Gwen, and Robert.

I had come to prefer Gaynes over even Fair Meadow. It was a pretty house, with windows that caught all the best light of the day and views of rolling woodland and meadows. I prayed that violence never shattered the calm there as it had in Finningley. Even my son John fell under its peaceful spell, reverting to his old loving and giving self, a delight to his little sisters and a great comfort to me. I still treasure as one of my life’s most precious moments the afternoon when he asked if he might rest with me as we had in years past.

Yet however much comfort I found in my children and Gaynes, during that sojourn I often sank into anxiety, sorrow, and fear. From the beginning, that parliament was out for blood—that of William Latimer, John Neville, and Richard Stury as the courtiers, and Richard Lyons as the financier who had advised them in what the commons saw as their fraudulent use of power to fill their personal coffers.

Apparently Pembroke’s man, Peter de la Mare, stepped up to lead
the commons, and managed to press forward with their complaints. Though Prince Edward, adamantly opposed to conceding any ground to the commons, had been present for the start of the proceedings, he was so ill that he withdrew immediately after that.

I was terrified, fearing that public condemnation of me would surely follow. How I wished I had feigned illness and not displayed myself as the Lady of the Sun! I might lose everything now. I might lose my daughters’ dowries.

Blame hung in the air. Working in the gardens at Gaynes, I would interpret birdsong as chiding. Riding out with Robert or my children, I would hear a litany of my sins in my mount’s hoof beats. No matter how my family and friends tried to distract me with pleasant activities, I felt as if I were continually examining my conscience in preparation for the sacrament of confession, and was increasingly terrified to take my turn before my confessor.

While I watched Joan and Jane play in the garden, I would read missives from Geoffrey and my brother John. Joan’s amusingly imperious voice, instructing Jane in the ever-shifting rules of her games, would suddenly in my mind call out more frightening news.

The commons claimed that the “court circle’s” loans were grossly criminal, defrauding the Crown of huge sums owed it, that, in short, we had profited from Edward’s financial problems. They claimed that in his dotage the king had been led into error by us, and that we controlled him—conveniently forgetting the strong arms and close involvement of Prince Edward and the Duke of Lancaster.