The King’s Concubine: A Novel of Alice Perrers

by Anne O'Brien

  And every day I waited for the repercussions.

  Wykeham might be furiously circumspect and stonily silent, but my anonymity must be compromised, even though whoever had initially informed Isabella had been effectively silenced.

  For weeks it was as if I walked on the thinnest of thin ice, waiting with every step for it to give way beneath me to plunge me into a freezing torrent. I was summoned. I obeyed. Wykeham was always my escort. The Queen’s health was always the excuse to take me from my room. But was our subterfuge not obvious? I could see the cracks radiating out from my feet every time I trod the same route in that first month.

  And then the whispers began amongst the damsels. A slide of eye as I entered the solar. A comment that died away behind a flutter of fingers. It was nothing more than the faintest breath of scandal; the whispering remained barely audible, like the soft shiver of spring leaves in the forest canopy, as if it were known but agreed that it would not be spoken of. A strange conspiracy of silence: everyone knowing the truth of it, but no one prepared to unwrap the secret and lay my deceit open for all to see. No one challenged me to my face.

  And why?

  Not out of any respect for me. The silence was for Philippa. Such was the love she engendered that it was agreed she should not be told the despicable truth, that her youngest damsel lay naked in her husband’s arms.

  How unfair. How appallingly unjust! The situation hemmed me in and forced me to uphold the pretense that the Queen was as innocent and ignorant as she was believed to be. I was the guilty one. I had slithered my way into the King’s bed like Eve’s snake. For in all those weeks, I heard not one word of condemnation of Edward, as if it were acceptable that he, the King, would take a woman to his bed to replace his poor suffering wife. The King was beyond reproach.

  Why Alice? they asked. I could read it in the slant of their glances. Why not choose someone better-born, more talented—someone beautiful—if lust itched at his loins? I was no longer their pampered pet, no longer clasped to their collective bosom.

  “Are you made to suffer for this?” Edward demanded in his forthright way. “Any man who maligns you will be dismissed.”

  How typical of a man. It was in the world of women, the cruelly gossiping henhouse of the solar, where I was held up for judgment.

  “No one speaks ill of me,” I replied.

  I lied. I lied well. What point in telling him that the sharp dagger of ostracism was held to my breast all day, every day? It was not that he was uncaring, simply that no one dared whisper when the King was present.

  At least my enemies took their lead from Isabella, whose demeanor toward me was rigidly polite, so icy that her stare could have frozen the Thames in August. So cold that it hurt.

  It could not last. It was not in the nature of women, enclosed in the hothouse of solar politics, to tolerate a sin for long without a bite, a snap, a pinch. How publicly I was brought to book. In the manner of its doing, I would never forgive them for it. The occasion was a royal visit in November of 1363, when I had been Edward’s lover for a little more than a month: a celebration of true splendor, when the rulers of France, Cyprus, and Scotland visited the English Court to be overawed by our magnificence. At a tournament at Smithfield, Edward would joust and lead one of the forays in the melee. At Edward’s request, we were to attend with the Queen, clad in royal colors to support the symbolic victory of England over her enemies. We gathered in the audience chamber before making our procession to the ladies’ gallery, a mass of silver and blue and sable fur, an eye-catching display of royal power as we damsels clustered around the Queen, who also shone in blue and silver with sapphires on her breast. A flutter of anticipation danced through the ranks.

  Until the flutter of anticipation evolved into a rustle of shocked delight as I became the center of attention. As I knew I must.

  The Queen’s eye fell on me.

  “Alice…”

  I could have made my excuses and absented myself. I could have hidden, motivated by cowardice, by humiliation, for was that not the intent?

  My enemy had misjudged me. I would not hide.

  “Majesty.” I curtsied. My skirts, as all could see, were not silver and blue and furred with sable.

  “Why…?” The Queen gestured toward my threadbare clothing, which I’d deliberately chosen. I wore the garments I had first arrived in and kept for no good reason, since I had had no intention of ever wearing them again. Worn and crude, stained and creased from their long sojourn in my coffer, now they clothed me from head to foot as a lowly servant in coarse russet. I stood out in the midst of this jeweled throng, a sparrow worming its scruffy way into a charm of goldfinches.

  So! I had thrown down my gauntlet. Now I considered my reply most carefully. Did I state the blatant truth? The idea appealed to me as my temper roiled beneath the rough overgown of a conversa. Every one of the innocent-faced damsels would know it, so why not unroll it like a valuable bolt of velvet for all to gloat over? Or did I exert some subtle dissimulation? Subtle? How could I be subtle? How could I lie, when fury beat in my head like a blacksmith’s hammer?

  All I could see in my mind was the beautiful gown laid out for me on my bed, the most beautiful I had ever owned. The silk and damask was slashed and torn beyond repair, the fur edging ravaged. The veil was rent in half, the embroidered girdle cut in two. I had worked hard on it for so many weeks, but in the space of an hour someone had wielded a pair of shears with no skill and much vengeance. All my hard-worked stitching—when I had employed more patience than I had ever dreamed possible—entirely undone. Someone had delighted in taking out their hatred of me on Philippa’s gift: The soft leather shoes with damask rosettes had entirely vanished. I could have wept when I saw the destruction, but those who shared my room would have enjoyed my grief far too much. For a moment I had stood and looked, swallowing the tears, moved not so much by this evidence of my isolation but by the disfigurement of so beautiful a thing. I heard a choked giggle that hardened my resolve. I carefully folded the ruined garment and veil and with fierce deliberation changed into the cheap fustian fit for a domestic drudge. If I could not wear the best, I would not compete with second-best. I made no attempt to hide what I had once been and what had been done to me.

  Truth or dissembling? I looked ’round at the waiting faces, hearing the words in my mind.

  One of your damsels disfigured my gown out of spite, Majesty.

  Well, that would get me nowhere. I had no proof, only the evidence. I would merely look foolish.

  “She cannot attend like that,” Isabella observed when I had still not explained.

  “No,” the Queen agreed. “She cannot.”

  “I suppose there is a reason for the disobedience.” I could hear the smile in Isabella’s voice. Not that I thought she was the guilty one. Such a vendetta was beneath her, and she knew the Queen’s wishes in this.

  I raised my eyes to Philippa’s face. “I am not willfully disobedient, Majesty.”

  Her face was serene, her eyes clear. “A misfortune, perhaps…”

  She had thrown me a lifeline. “Yes, my lady. It was my own carelessness.”

  “And so great a carelessness that the gown is beyond wearing?”

  “Yes, Majesty. The blame is mine.”

  I looked at no one but the Queen, praying that she would understand and allow me to retire without punishment.

  “Carelessness is not one of your sins, Alice,” she observed.

  “Forgive me, my lady.” I lowered my gaze to the silver-and-blue rosettes on the toes of her shoes.

  “Alice…” I looked up to see the Queen nod briskly. “I understand. Come with me. And you too, Isabella. We have time, I think. Half an hour…”

  I heard an exhalation around me. Disappointment, perhaps. But what a sense of exhilaration I felt. I had proved stronger than my enemies. I had shown that their hostility meant nothing to me. I would make no excuses; I would not retaliate; I would keep my own counsel. They would see that I ha
d no fear of them. For the first time I learned the true power of self-control.

  And that half hour demanded by the Queen?

  A half hour was all that was needed to put in place a transformation. The Queen was soon disrobed of her blue and silver and furred gown. My own disreputable garments were stripped from me—I never saw them again—and Philippa’s robes became mine. They were far too large, but with some robust lacing I kept them from falling off my shoulders.

  Not a word was spoken other than instructions to breathe or lift or step out.

  “Good!” The Queen, regal even in her shift, watched as her silver-edged veil and girdle were added to my ensemble. “Tell the King we will be ready in five minutes, Isabella.” And when the Queen and I found ourselves alone together, she asked: “Will you tell me, Alice?”

  “There is nothing to tell, my lady.”

  She did not press me but turned again to the matter at hand.

  “Fetch the crimson and gold with the gold overrobe. And the gold veil and the ruby collar.”

  We returned to the audience chamber, where the atmosphere was thick with the waiting. There the Queen stood in our midst, glowing like a priceless ruby in the silver-and-blue setting of her damsels, whom she addressed with hard-eyed severity.

  “We will honor the King today. It is my will. Alice is a loyal subject to both myself and His Majesty.” She looked around at the suddenly bland faces. “I am displeased by the discourtesy to myself and those who serve me. I will not tolerate it.”

  Silence.

  “Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, Majesty.” There was a hurried bending of the knee on all sides.

  What an oblique little statement, saying little but acknowledging everything, and as clear as day to anyone with wit.

  “Mistress Perrers will sit at my side at the tournament,” the Queen continued with a flat stare. “Now, let us put in a belated appearance. It is always good for a woman to be a little late when a handsome man awaits her. Give me your arm, Mistress Perrers.”

  The tournament proved to be a superb exhibition of manly warfare, a triumphal celebration of my position at Edward’s court. And what a contest he fought. If the visiting monarchs had any thoughts of the waning powers of England’s King as he entered his fiftieth year, Edward dispelled them with his mastery of the art of combat.

  I should have rejoiced, not least at my own victory, but the whole performance proved to be an edged sword for me. Jealousy is a terrible sin and a vicious companion: an animal that eats and claws and gives no quarter. Thus it attacked me throughout that glorious afternoon. I might be Edward’s lover, but it was to Philippa that he looked, to Philippa that he gave the honors and the chivalric adoration. Not once did he single me out in my royal blue and silver, neither with look nor gesture. Edward accepted Philippa’s scarf as his guerdon and wore it pinned to the sash over his body armor. He kissed Philippa’s fingers and vowed to fight in her name. At the end, when he received the victor’s prize and Philippa’s loving salute, Edward spoke to her alone.

  And I? I was woman enough to resent it. Why could he not speak to me? I was ashamed, bitterly remorseful of my envy, but unable to quell it. It assaulted me, as a grub burrows into the flesh of an apple, and I watched the tournament with a smile painted on my face, empty words on my lips, and anger in my heart that the King would take my body in private but not acknowledge me in public. I knew my thoughts were all awry, unfair to both Philippa and Edward, and to the role I had undertaken with my eyes open to the consequences, but still I raged inwardly.

  I was simply one of the damsels to fetch and carry.

  Until I was in Edward’s bed that night.

  “That was a good day’s work.” He stretched and sighed, pinning me effortlessly to the bed, his body slick and sated.

  “Which part of it?” I responded primly, similarly replete, the monster of discontent temporarily laid to rest. I had not known that I could be prim, but I was discovering a multitude of skills to beguile a potent man. Edward had pleasured me with skill equal to that shown in the lists, and with far more subtlety.

  “Mistress Alice, you have a mischievous tongue. There’s life in the old dog yet.” He turned his face into the curve of my breast, kissing the damp hollow where my heart still shivered with physical delight. “I can still fell a knight half my age with a lance and a good horse beneath me.”

  “And still reduce a woman to abject surrender…” I trailed a hand down his shoulder, pressing my palm against his ribs, feeling the answering solid beat.

  “I thought I was the one to surrender.”

  “Perhaps you did. You deserved to be defeated by a woman after all your male pride today. Wykeham will surely lecture you on how sinful it is.”

  He rolled to hold my face between his hands so that I could not avoid his gaze, even if I had wished to. “My victory was for you too, Alice. Never doubt that.”

  “No, it was not.” The green-eyed grub in the heart of the sweet apple was not quite dead. “You didn’t think to ask for my guerdon, as I recall.”

  My tone was light but not altogether teasing, and he took me seriously, as he often did when I challenged him. “The thought was in my heart. This duplicity does not sit well with me.”

  I stifled a sigh and kissed him, allowing him the victory. Were we not both guilty of hypocrisy? “The Queen was the obvious choice as your lady, and you fought magnificently for her,” I assured him. “You gave her great pleasure.”

  It was like executing a complicated dance step to which I was not accustomed, but, by God, my skills were improving. “The Queen dressed in red and gold to please you. To be the center of your vision and wish you victory.”

  “Rich colors always suited her.” He smiled reflectively, and then his eyes focused, sparkling. “Now, you were perfect in silver and blue. And are even more perfect without any clothing at all…”

  Edward’s energies were prodigious.

  As I was preparing to leave him, braving Wykeham’s silent enmity, Edward cast a jeweled chain around my neck with careless generosity. He had worn it at the feast that had followed the tournament. I lifted the links in my hand as it lay on my breast, and stared at it.

  “What’s wrong?” Edward asked gruffly.

  “You don’t know?”

  “No. I think it becomes you.”

  “I cannot accept this, Edward. I really can’t!”

  “Why not?”

  “I thought you wished to be discreet.” I took it off and placed it over his head so that it gleamed with far more power against the muscles of his own chest. “There’s nothing discreet about it. The golden links would curb a horse, and the sapphires are the size of pigeon’s eggs.” He was not pleased, as I could see by the flare of his nostrils. I must have a care with his pride, but I must also safeguard my still-precarious position. A wise woman would not stir up more trouble than she needed. “Give me this instead,” I said, and reached to where the Queen’s scarf lay. And with it the brooch that had pinned the scarf to his sash.

  “It is a small thing, Alice,” he remonstrated, brows flattening ominously into a line. “Of no value.”

  “It is of great value,” I purred persuasively, holding it on my palm. “You wore it in the thick of battle. I would like it for my own. And I can wear it without ostentation. See sense, Edward. How could I wear a chain like that without every finger at Court being pointed at me?”

  Edward grunted his acquiescence. “Very well, madam. I’ll be persuaded. But one day I’ll give you what I choose.”

  “And one day I’ll let you.” And I knew that, at some distant point in the future, I would.

  He pinned the simple jewel, a gold circle set with pinpoints of emeralds, to the linen of my shift, where it gleamed with a strange ostentation against the plain fabric. “This is not easy for you, is it?” It was not the first time he had asked the question. Nor was my reply any different.

  “No. How would it be easy?”

  “Am
I selfish in demanding that you play this role?”

  “Yes. But you are King. Are you not allowed to be selfish?”

  He laughed, his humor restored, if a little wry.

  I kept the brooch. Amongst the jewels that Philippa had given me it went unobserved. One day, as Edward had intimated, I would not be so discreet. One day I would not have need to be, but the obvious reason for this broke my heart. As long as the Queen lived, discretion must rule.

  “Are you going to remain silent?” I demanded of Wykeham as he escorted me once more along the route I knew only too well. “You can’t refuse to speak to me forever. When did you become so prudish?”

  “When I perjured my soul in keeping the King’s disgraceful secret,” he responded without looking at me. “I’m leaving Havering to undertake some building at Windsor,” he added through his teeth.

  “I wager you’ll find that more rewarding than associating with me.”

  “God’s Wounds, I shall!”

  “But I’ll still be here when you return,” I could not resist adding with a spark of naughty levity.

  “I’ll pray for a miracle that you are not!”

  Wykeham went to Windsor to build a new tower. I missed him. I missed his severity and his honesty, but I no longer needed him as an escort, for I was given a room of my own, with freedom to make my own way to the royal accommodations. So my position was laid bare before the whole Court, yet the conspiracy of silence for Philippa’s sake continued.

  And when it did not?

  “Whore!” hissed an ill-advised damsel when her moral indignation got the better of her good sense.

  The result was a succinct audience with the Queen. Her possessions were packed, and she left Court within the day. I had enemies, but I had friends too, who were far more powerful. I still trod carefully, but with growing poise and confidence in every step. How would I not? Philippa’s royal gown—all blue and silver and costly fur—was recut and restitched so that it fit me perfectly. I gloried in its possession.

  Chapter Seven

  Philippa was ill—a return of the old complaint that never entirely left her. I rubbed salve into the taut skin of Philippa’s hands as gently as I could.