The King's Concubine

And what did I write? A chronology of my days. What I wished to remember. I wrote, as I recall, for over a year.

Did I ever consider that the damsels might discover what I wrote? Not for a moment. They mocked my scribbling. And what I scribbled was excruciatingly dull. Once, to satisfy their curiosity, I read aloud …

‘Today I joined the damsels in my first hunt. I had no enjoyment of it. The King celebrates his fiftieth year with a great tournament and jousting held at Smithfield. We all attend. I am learning to dance.’

‘By the Virgin, Alice!’ Isabella yawned behind her slender fingers. ‘If you have nothing better to write about, what in heaven’s name is the value of doing it? Better to return to scouring the pots in the kitchens.’

Dull? Infinitely. And quite deliberate, to ensure that no damsel was sufficiently interested to poke her sharp nose into what I might be doing. But what memories my writings evoked for me upon reading them again when my life was in danger and turmoil. There on the pages, in the briefest of record, the pattern of my life unfolded in that fateful year. What a miraculous, terrifying, life-changing year it proved to be.

Today I joined the damsels in my first hunt. I had no enjoyment. The gelding I was given was a mount from hell. I would never see the pleasure in being jolted and bounced for two hours, to come at the end to a baying pack of hounds and a bloody kill. Truth to tell, the kill happened without me, for I fell off with a shriek at the first breath-stopping gallop. Sitting on the ground, covered with leaf mould and twigs, beating the damp earth from my skirts, I raged in misery. My crispinettes and hood had become detached, the hunt had disappeared into the distance. So had my despicable mount. It would be a long walk home.

‘A damsel in distress, by God!’

I had not registered the beat of hooves on the soft ground under the trees. I looked up to see two horses bearing down on me at speed, one large and threatening, the other small and wiry.

‘Mistress Alice!’ The King reined in, his stallion dancing within feet of me. ‘Are you well down there?’

‘No, I am not.’ I was not as polite as I should have been.

‘Who suggested you ride that brute that thundered past us?’

‘It was the Lady Isabella. Then the misbegotten bag of bones deposited me here … I should never have come. I detest horses.’

‘So why did you?’

I wasn’t altogether sure, except that it was expected of me. It was the one joy in life remaining to the Queen when she was in health. The King swung down, threw his reins to the lad on the pony, and approached on foot. I raised a hand to shield my eyes from the sun where it glimmered through the new leaves.

‘Thomas—go and fetch the lady’s ride,’ he ordered.

Thomas, the King’s youngest son, abandoned the stallion and rode off like the wind on the pony. The King offered his hand.

‘I can get to my feet alone, Sire.’ Ungracious, I knew, but my humiliation was strong.

‘I’ve no doubt, lady. Humour me.’

His eyes might be bright with amusement but his order was peremptory and not to be disobeyed. I held out my hand, and with a firm tug I was pulled to my feet, whereupon the King began to dislodge the debris from my skirts with long strokes of the flat of his hand. Shame coloured my cheeks.

‘Indeed you should not, Sire!’

‘I should indeed. You need to pin up your hair.’

‘I can’t. There’s not enough to pin up and I need help to make it look respectable.’

‘Then let me.’

‘No, Sire!’ To have the King pin up my hair? I would as soon ask Isabella to scrub my back.

He sighed. ‘You must allow me, mistress, as a man of chivalry, to set your appearance to rights.’

And tucking my ill-used crispinettes into his belt he proceeded with astonishingly deft fingers to re-pin my simple hood, as if he were tying the jesses of his favourite goshawk. I stood still under his ministrations, barely breathing. The King stepped back and surveyed me.

‘Passable. I’ve not lost my touch in all these years.’ He cocked an ear to listen, and nodded his head. ‘And now, lady, you’ll have to get back on.’

He was laughing at me. ‘I don’t wish to.’

‘You will, unless you intend to walk home.’ Thomas had returned with my recalcitrant mount and before I could make any more fuss, I was boosted back into the saddle. For a moment, as he tightened my girths, the King looked up into my face, then abruptly stepped back.

‘There you are, Mistress Alice. Hold tight!’ A slap of the King’s hand against the horse’s wide rump set me in motion. ‘Look after her, Thomas. The Queen will never forgive you if you allow her to fall into a blackberry thicket.’ A pause, and the words followed me. ‘And neither will I.’

And Thomas did. He was only seven years old and more skilled at riding than I would ever be. But it was the King’s deft hands I remembered.

The King celebrates his fiftieth year with a great tournament and jousting. Magnificent! The King was superlative in his new armour. I could not find words, burnished as he was by the sun, sword and armour striking fire as his arm rose and fell, the plumes on his helmet nodding imperiously. And yet I feared for him, my loins liquid and cold with fear. I could not look away, but when blood glistened on his vambrace, dripping from his fingers, I closed my eyes.

No need of course. His energy always prodigious, he was touched with magic that day. Fighting in the mêlée with all the dash and finesse of a hero of the old tales, he had the grace at the end to heap praise on those whom he defeated.

Afterwards, when the combatants gathered in the banter much loved by men, the Queen’s ladies threw flowers to the knight of their choice. I had no one. Neither did I care, for there was only one to fill my vision, whether in the lists or in the vicious cut and thrust of personal combat. And I was audacious enough to fling a rosebud when he approached the gallery in which we women sat with the Queen. He had removed his helm. He was so close to me, his face pale and drawn in the aftermath of his efforts, that I could detect the smear of blood on his cheek where he had wiped at the dust with his gauntlet. I was spellbound, so much so that the flower I flung ineptly struck the cheek of the King’s stallion—a soft blow, but the high-blooded destrier instantly reared in the manner of its kind.

‘Sweet Jesu!’ Startled, the King dropped his helm, tightening his reins as he fought to bring the animal back under control.

‘Have you no sense?’ Isabella snapped.

I thought better of replying and steeled myself for the King’s reproof. Without a word he snapped his fingers to his page to pick up the helm and the trampled flower. I looked at him in fear.

‘My thanks, lady.’

He bowed his head solemnly to me as he tucked the crumpled petals into the gorget at his throat. My belly clenched, my face flamed to my hairline. Proud, haughty, confident, he was the King of England yet he would treat me with respect when I had almost unhorsed him.

‘Our kitchen maid cannot yet be relied upon to act decorously in public!’ Isabella remarked, setting up a chorus of laughter.

But the King did not sneer. Urging his horse closer to the gilded canvas, the fire dying from his eyes as the energy of battle receded, he stretched out his hand, palm up.

‘Mistress Alice, if you would honour me.’

And I placed mine there. The King kissed my fingers.

‘The rose was a fine gesture, if a little wayward. My horse and I both thank you, Mistress Alice.’

There was the rustle of appreciative laughter, no longer at my expense. I felt the heat of his kiss against my skin, hotter than the beat of blood in my cheeks.

I am learning to dance. ‘Holy Virgin!’ I misstepped the insistent beat of the tabor and shawm for the twentieth time. How could I excel at tallying coins, yet be unable to count the steps in a simple processional dance? The King’s hand tightened to give me balance as I lurched. He was a better dancer than I. It would be hard to be worse.

‘You are allowed to look at me, Mistress Alice,’ he announced when we came together again.

‘If I do, I shall fall over my feet, Sire, or yours. I’ll cripple you before the night is out.’

‘I’ll lead you in the right steps.’ I must have looked askance. ‘Do you not trust me, Alice?’

He had called me by my name, without formality. I looked up, to find his eyes quizzical on my face, and I missed the next simple movement.

‘I dare not,’ I managed.

‘You would refuse your King?’ He was amused again.

‘I would when it would be to his benefit.’

‘Then we must do our poor best, sweet Alice, and count the broken toes at the end of the evening.’

Sweet Alice? Was he flirting with me? But no. That was not possible. I exasperated him more than I entertained him.

‘By God, Mistress Alice. You did not lie,’ he stated ruefully as the procession wound to its end. ‘You should issue a warning to any man who invites you.’

‘Not every man is as brave as you, Sire.’

‘Then I’ll remember not to risk it again,’ he said as he handed me back to sit at Philippa’s side.

But he did. Even though I still fell over his feet.

The Queen did not forbid me to dance with the King, but she appeared to find little enjoyment in the occasion.

The Queen has given the King a lion. Ah, yes! The affair of the lion! Observing the damsels with scorn where they huddled, hiding their faces, retreating from its roars in mock fear, keen to find a comforting arm from one of the King’s gallant knights, I walked towards the huge cage where I might inspect the beast at close quarters. I was not afraid, and would not pretend to be so. How could it harm me when it was imprisoned behind bars and locks? Its rough, tawny mane, its vast array of teeth fascinated me. I stepped closer as it settled on its haunches, tail twitching in impotent warning.

‘You’re not afraid, Mistress Alice?’ Soft-footed, the King stood behind me.

‘No, Sire. What need?’ We had returned to formality and I was not sorry. Was he not the King? ‘The girls are foolish, not afraid. They just wish to …’

‘They wish to attract attention?’

‘Yes, Sire.’

We looked across to where the fluttering damsels received assurance and flattery.

‘And you do not, Mistress Alice? Does not some young knight take your critical eye? Is there no one you admire?’

I thought about this, giving his question more consideration than perhaps was intended, appraising the wealth of strength and beauty and high blood around me.

‘No, Sire.’ It was the truth.

‘But you admire my lion.’

‘Oh, I do.’

The lion watched us with impassive hatred. Were we not the cause of its imprisonment? I considered its state, and my own past experience. Both kept under duress, without freedom. Both existing on the whim of another. But I had escaped by miraculous means. There would be no miracle for this lion. This poor beast would remain in captivity until the day of its death.

‘Does nothing fill you with terror? Other than horses, of course.’

He had unnerved me again. ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘But it’s a fear you’ll never know, Sire.’

‘Tell me, then.’

Before I could collect my wits I found myself explaining, because he was regarding me as if he really cared about my fears. ‘I am afraid of the future, Sire, where nothing is permanent, nothing is certain. Of a life without stability, without friends or family, without a home. Where I am nobody, without name or status.’ I paused. ‘I don’t want to be dependent on the pity or charity of others—I have had enough of that. I want to make something of myself, for myself.’

Holy Mother! I looked fixedly at the lion. Had I really admitted to all that? To the King?

‘It’s a lot to ask,’ he replied simply. ‘For a young woman in your situation.’

Much as Countess Joan had observed, with far less courtesy. ‘Is it impossible?’

‘No. That was not my meaning. But it’s a hard road for a woman alone to travel.’

‘Must I then accept my fate, like this poor imprisoned beast?’

‘Are we not all governed by fate, mistress?’

Aware that his attention was turned from lion to me, and that the conversation had taken a very personal turn, I sought for an innocuous reply. ‘I don’t intend ingratitude, Sire. I’m aware of how much I owe the Queen.’

‘I didn’t know that you saw your future in so bleak a light.’

‘Why would you, Sire? You are the King. It is not necessary that you either know or care.’ For that is how I saw it.

‘Am I so selfish?’ Startled, his fine brows met over the bridge of his nose and I wondered if I had displeased him. ‘Or is it that you have a low opinion of all men?’

‘I’ve no reason not to. My father, whoever he was, gave me no reason to think highly of them. Neither did my husband, who took me in a sham of a marriage to ward off his sister’s nagging. I did not matter overmuch to either of them.’

For a moment the King looked astounded, as he might if one of his hounds dared to bite him on the ankle.

‘You don’t hold back with the truth, do you, mistress? It seems I must make amends for my sex.’

‘You owe me nothing, Sire.’

‘Perhaps it is not a matter of owing, Alice. Perhaps it is more of what I find I wish to do.’

The lion roared, lashing out with claws against the metal, interrupting whatever the King, or I, might have said next. He led me away as attendants from his menagerie came to transport the beast, and I thanked God for the timely intervention. I had said quite enough.

But the King was not done with me yet. ‘You are not justified in your reading of my character, Mistress Alice,’ he said with a wry twist of his lips as we came to the door. ‘I know exactly what you fear. I lived through a time when my future hung on a thread, when I did not know friend from enemy and my authority as King was under attack. I know about rising every morning from my bed, not knowing what fate would bring me—whether good or evil.’

I must have shown my disbelief that a King should ever know such doubts.

‘One day I will tell you.’

He walked away, leaving me dumbfounded.

I have a gift. From Edward himself. I frowned at my gift, all spirit with a mane and tail of silk, as neat as an illustration from a Book of Hours, as she fussed and tossed her head in the stableyard.

‘You don’t like her?’

‘I don’t know why you should give her to me, Sire.’

‘Why should I not?’

‘And why do you always ask me questions to which I have no answer?’

Edward laughed, not at all disturbed by my retort. ‘You always seem to find one.’

‘She’s never short of a pert comment, that’s for sure.’ Isabella had arrived to stroke the pretty, dappled creature. ‘When did you last give me a new horse, sir?’

‘When you last asked me for one, as I recall. Two months ago.’

‘So you did. I must think of something else, since you’re generous today.’

‘You have never had need to question my generosity, Isabella,’ the King replied dryly.

‘True,’ she conceded, with a final pat to the mare. ‘Get what you can, little Alice, since His Majesty is in the mood for giving. Here’s your chance to make your fortune from the royal coffers!’ And she wandered off, restless as ever.

‘My daughter is free with her opinions.’ He watched her go. ‘I apologise for her lack of grace.’

It had been an unnerving interlude, leaving the King with less of his good humour, but still I asked, ‘You have not told me why you have given me the mare, Sire.’

‘I have given you the mare because you need a mount to take care of you when my son cannot. She will treat you very well, if you will be so good as to accept her.’

His reply was curt, giving me a taste of his latent power, his dislike of being questioned, his very masculine pride. I set myself to charm and amuse, as I knew I could. King or not, he did not deserve that his open-handed magnanimity to a servant be thrown in his face.

‘I am not ungracious, Sire. It is just that no one has ever given me a gift before. Except for the Queen. And once I was given a monkey.’ He began to smile. ‘It was a detestable creature.’

Edward laughed. ‘What happened to it? Do you still have it?’

‘Fortunately not. I fear its fate was sealed at St Mary’s.’

His laughter became a low growl. ‘Then if you are so short of gifts, mistress, I must do what I can to remedy it.’

I considered this. ‘The King does not give gifts to girls of no family.’

‘This one does. He gives what he wishes, to whom he wishes. Or at least he gives a palfrey to you, Mistress Alice.’

‘I can’t, Sire …’ I was not lacking in good sense. It would be indiscreet. The mare was far too valuable.

‘What a prickly creature you are. It is nothing, you know.’

‘Not to you.’

‘I want you to enjoy her. Will you allow me to do that? If for no other reason than that you serve the Queen well.’

How could I refuse? When the mare pushed against my shoulder with her soft nose, I fell in love with her, because she was beautiful and she was the King’s gift.

* * *

The Queen is ill. She cannot move from her bed and begs me to read to her. When the King visited I stood to curtsey, already closing the book and putting it aside, expecting to be dismissed. His time with his wife was precious. But he waved me on and sat with us until I had finished the tale.

It was a dolorous one in which the Queen found particular enjoyment. She wept for the tragedy of the ill-fated lovers, Tristan and Isolde. The King stroked her hand, chiding her gently for her foolishness, telling her that his love for her was far greater than that of Tristan for his lady, and that he had no intention of doing anything so spineless as turning his face to the wall to die. Only a sword in the gut would bring him to his knees. And was his dear Philippa intending to cast herself over his body and die too without cause but a broken heart? Were they not, after so many years of marriage, made of sterner stuff than that? For shame!

It made the Queen laugh through her tears. ‘A foolish tale.’ She gave a watery smile.

‘But it was well read. With much feeling,’ Edward observed.

He touched my shoulder as he left us, the softest of pressures. Did the Queen notice? I thought not, but she dismissed me brusquely, pleading a need for solitude. She covered her face with her hands.

Her voice stopped me as I reached the door.

‘Forgive me, Alice. It is a grievous burden I have given myself, and sometimes it is beyond me to bear it well.’

I did not understand her.

* * *

The King has had his clock placed in a new tower. I stood and watched in awe. His shout of laughter was powerful, a thing of joy, for at last his precious clock was nearly ready. The tower to house it was complete and the pieces of the mechanism were assembled to the Italian craftsman’s finicky satisfaction. Here was the day that it would be set into working order, and the Queen had expressed a desire to witness it. Had Edward not had it made for her, modelled on that of the Abbot of St Albans, with its miraculous shifting panels of sun and stars?

‘I can’t,’ Philippa admitted, ‘I really can’t,’ when she could not push her swollen feet into soft shoes. ‘Go and watch for me, Alice. The King needs an audience.’

‘Thank God!’ Isabella remarked.

‘For what precisely?’ Philippa was peevish. ‘I fail to see any need to thank Him this morning.’

‘Because you didn’t ask me to go to look at the monstrosity.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t. Alice will enjoy it. Alice can ask the King the right questions, and then tell us all about it. Can’t you?’

‘Yes, Majesty,’ I replied.

‘But not in great detail,’ Isabella called after me as I left the room. ‘We’re not all fixated with ropes and pulleys and wheels.’

So I went alone. I was interested in ropes and pulleys and cogs with wooden teeth that locked as they revolved. I wanted to see what the Italian had achieved. Was that all I wanted?

Ah no!

I wanted to watch and understand what fascinated Edward when he didn’t have a sword in his hand or a celebration to organise. I wanted to see what beguiled this complex man of action. So I watched the final preparations.

We were not alone. The King had his audience with or without my presence, the Italian and his assistant as well as a cluster of servants and a handful of men at arms to give the necessary strength. And there was Thomas, who could not be kept away from such a spectacle.

‘We need to lift this into position, Sire.’ The Italian gestured, arms flung wide. ‘And then attach the weights and the ropes for the bell.’

The ropes were apportioned to the men at arms, the instructions issued to hoist the weights for the winding mechanism. Thomas was given the task of watching for the moment all was in place. I was waved ignominiously to one side.

‘Pull!’ the Italian bellowed. And they did. ‘Pull!’

With each repetition, the pieces of the clock rose into position.

‘Almost there!’ Thomas capered in excitement.

‘Pull!’ ordered the Italian.

They pulled, and with a creak and a snap one of the ropes broke. The weight to which it was attached crashed down to the floor, sending up a shower of dust and stone chippings. Before I could react, the loose remnants of the rope flew in an arc, like a whiplash, snaking out across the stone paving, to strike my ankles with such force that my feet were taken out from under me.

I fell in an inelegant heap of skirts and frayed rope and dust.

‘Signorina!’ The Italian leapt to my side with horror.

‘Alice!’ The King was there too.

I sat up slowly, breathless from shock and surprise, my ankles sore, as the Italian proceeded to wipe dust from my face, before discreetly arranging my disordered skirts.

‘Signorina! A thousand pardons!’

It all seemed to be happening at a distance: the cloud of dust settling; the soldiers lowering the still unfixed pieces of the clock, now forgotten in the chaos. Thomas staring at me with a mixture of horror and fascination.

My eyes fixed on the King’s anxious face. ‘Edward …’ I said.

‘You are quite safe now.’ He enclosed my hands within his and lifted them to his lips.

And my senses returned.

‘I am not hurt,’ I stated.

Ignoring this, Edward sent Thomas at a run. ‘Fetch my physician!’

‘I am not hurt,’ I repeated.

‘I’ll decide whether you are hurt or not,’ Edward snapped back, and then to his Master of Clocks, who still fussed and wrung his hands, ‘See to the mechanism. It’s not your fault, man! I’ll deal with Mistress Alice.’

Never had I been so aware of his presence, the proud flare of nostrils that gave him a hawkish air even when rank fear was imprinted in his face.

‘Can you stand?’ he asked abruptly.

‘Yes.’

Gently, he lifted me and stood me on my feet. To my surprise I staggered and was forced to clutch at his arm—no artifice on my part but a momentary dizziness. Without a second thought Edward swept me up into his arms and carried me away from the dust and debris.

For the first time in my short existence I was enclosed in the arms of a man. All the feelings I had imagined but never experienced flooded through me. The heat of his body against mine, the steady beat of his heart. The fine grain of his skin, the firmness of his hands holding me close. The pungency of sweat and dust. My throat was dry with an inexplicable need, my palms slick with it. Every inch of my skin seemed to be alive, shimmering in the bars of sunlight through the glazed and painted windows. I was alight, on fire, my heart thundering against the lacing of my gown …

Until I was brought back to reality.