The King's Mistress (25 page)

After the dance the king bowed to me and the page escorted me back to my place beside Geoffrey. When I’d caught my breath I glanced round to see all eyes turned toward me as people murmured to their companions.

“I am ruined,” I said, dismayed by my own behavior as I woke from the king’s spell. I was a moth to the flame of his presence, despite all that I had said to Geoffrey. What in fact I felt was disappointment that the magical, exhilarating moment was over.

Geoffrey, of course, heard only my words, not my scandalous thought. He took my hands in his. “No, Alice. It was but a dance. The king has done far more with many women who hold their heads high here at court. It was plain you were surprised. Indeed, at first your terror was visible, and I saw in his eyes how you pleased him anon by falling under his spell.”

Falling under his spell? I had. Oh, God forgive me, I had. But reason reasserted itself.

“The women of whom you speak are of noble blood, Geoffrey. I will be condemned for overstepping my position in the chain of being.”

“Yet you did enjoy the dance,” he said, handing me back the mazer we shared.

“I did. Oh, yes, Geoffrey, I did. Of that I am guilty.”

We shared a frightened, slightly giddy, laugh.

And therein lay my weakness. For I knew in my heart that not only would I not dare defy the king if he invited me to dance again, I would not wish to. It was one thing to hunt in a crowd with the king, occasionally garnering brief conversation with him; it was quite another to touch him, to match steps with him, to share the exhilaration of a dance.

He danced with all the young, pretty women at court, especially this Yuletide, when he was celebrating peace with France, I told myself. And resented the thought. I wanted to be singled out by him. He had reawakened something in me that I had not felt since the happy times with Janyn, a delight in my power as a woman. I understood the danger; I was so lonely, so hungry for affection. Once before I had been a moth to a bright flame—Janyn’s. He had brought me to court, set me down close to an even brighter flame. I wondered whether he’d been at all aware of the danger in which he had placed me. But then, had he ever fully considered the risk to me when he wed me? Had he known he would someday desert me? I crossed myself, frightened by my disloyal thoughts.

After the feast I dreaded Queen Philippa’s reaction. Could she see how her husband stirred me? How much I enjoyed his touch? Arousing him? I had not dared glance toward the high table to see how she received my dance with the king. But I could not avoid her, for that very evening it was my turn to bring to her the almond milk she enjoyed as she rested in her bedchamber after her feet, hands, and shoulders had been rubbed with warm, fragrant oils. The task involved warming the milk on the brazier in her chamber, and while I stood there the queen would review with me the events of the day, asking for my impressions. I had come to look forward to these evenings. But not that night.

Reclining against an array of cushions covered in bright silks, her large, wrinkled body draped in a loose gold silk robe, a color unbecoming to her but which she loved, the queen appeared to be in a merry mood. She was sharing a laugh with Lady Neville. While I held the cup over the brazier, stirring it, they traded some amusing gossip, and then Lady Neville departed.

“You danced prettily with His Grace,” said the queen as I set the mazer of warm almond milk next to her. As she shifted in the loose robe, the fragrant oils on her skin perfumed the air around her.

“You are kind, Your Grace. And so is His Grace. I was deeply honored by his benevolent courtesy.”

“Benevolent courtesy?” The queen smiled to herself. I was terrified that she had
seen, understood
.

“He told me of your dream of the woodbine and what it meant to you.” Her smile had faded and she grew thoughtful. “He thought it charming, such a testament of loving loyalty. Thought me cruel to complain of your refusal to accept what is. But it is best you do. You must forget your old life, Alice. The old queen left that in tatters with her death, as she did so many other lives. I do not like to speak ill of the dead, but you are my responsibility now and in need of guidance.”

“Your Grace, I—”

“I am not finished. Isabella of France controlled us all. She delayed my crowning for so long I began to think I’d never be queen as long as she lived. She rose up against the man who was not only her husband but a divinely anointed king, not merely forcing his abdication but attempting to put her lover in his place. My sweet Edward had to take command so young, so very young. Because of her.” She spoke in a quiet, pensive tone, not so much angry as resolute.

“Forgive me, Your Grace.” I felt disgraced, and resented her for treating me like a child.

“But be of good cheer. My husband the king and I are allowing you a new life, eh, my pet?”

“Yes, Your Grace, and I am most grateful. But I would be a soulless creature to forget my beloved husband.”

“Do not contradict me. I know what is best for you.”

An irritated tone now sharpened her voice. I simply bowed my head. I knew how easily she might sever my ties with Mary, Will, and John.

I believed she was sincerely concerned for my welfare. But she was a queen, and before that the daughter of a count, and her view of life was worlds apart from mine.

Evidently pleased by my acquiescence, she smiled and patted the bed beside her. It took me back to my last meeting with the dowager queen Isabella, when she bade me sit close to her on her bed while she told me of the danger to my family once she was dead. What was it Philippa had said? Isabella had left my old life in tatters. It was true that all my pain stemmed from whatever it was that Janyn and his mother’s family had done for her.

Once I sat beside her, Philippa took my hands in hers and looked long into my eyes, unblinking, as if testing me.

“You are a strong-willed young woman, Alice, with a backbone that others will not easily bend. I like that in a woman of my household, for you reside in a court ripe with temptations certain to overwhelm the weak. Be true to me and my Edward and we will prove faithful and generous.”

I waited for more, but she was apparently awaiting my response. Her swollen hands pressed mine. Her steady gaze unsettled me. I sensed that she meant to communicate to me something of great significance, which I was still unable to grasp.

“I do not understand, Your Grace. Have I done aught to make you doubt my loyalty? If so, I pray you forgive me, for it was done unwittingly.”

Philippa reached out and touched my cheek. “I forget you were not brought up to this. For now, try to be happy, Alice. Forget the past, revel in the honor and delight of being at court. You are young, beautiful, and will conquer many hearts. But remember that your first
loyalty is to the king and me. That is all I meant. If there comes a choice between us and another, remember who protects you.” She patted my hand. “And now you may retire. I am ready for sleep. Tomorrow you shall meet another who has lost her husband. My sweet Joan of Kent.”

“Lost? Have you had news of my husband, Your Grace?”

“Of course not. Would I not tell you?”

I was wondering how I might honestly answer that when she continued.

“I raised Joan, you know, after her father’s horrible execution ordered by my mother-in-law’s lover. Her mother was of no use, stupefied by potions that dulled her wit as well as her grief. Do you know the tale of Joan’s marriage? The scandal?”

I knew not to further irritate the queen by changing the subject. “I do. She was secretly wed to Sir Thomas Holland, he went off to seek his fortune, and she was so young—eleven?—that she did not dare contradict her guardian when he betrothed her to his son and heir, Montague.”

The queen made a sound between a chuckle and a snort. “Is that how the London merchants perceived it? In truth, Holland was not the match we wished for her, and when her guardians noticed her sulking about and ascertained for whom she yearned, they consulted me and her mother as to what was to be done. We all agreed that she must wed William Montague at once. But Holland was shrewd, we’d no idea how shrewd. Seven years he waited, until he had the fame and the wealth to go to the Pope. Seven years Joan lived as Montague’s wife only to be handed back to Holland. Scandalous! The Pope did it to annoy us, we are well aware. I would have sworn that Joan’s heart was with Montague, but she has seemed far happier with Holland.”

Fortunate woman, I thought.

“Alas,” Philippa sighed, “Holland died a few days ago. If love could have kept him alive, he would yet live by Joan’s power. They tell me that she is in deep, grievous mourning. I believe now that her heart was his from the moment she saw him in her guardian’s household. You will have something in common, both having lost a great love.”

At least she understood that Janyn was that. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Were you and your Janyn a love match? Did you go against your parents?”

“No, Your Grace, though I loved him with all my heart.”

“Good, good. I count on you to be obedient.”

I left her chamber that evening in much confusion.

T
HE WARMTH
with which Joan of Kent had greeted Queen Philippa and her daughter-in-law, Blanche of Lancaster, rapidly chilled upon our introduction. I did not wonder at that—the countess had good reason to avoid anyone who had been a friend to the late dowager queen, her father having been executed by Isabella’s lover.

“Mistress Alice,” she said aloud with a slight nod in my direction. “Isabella’s creature,” she murmured under her breath as she took a seat near the queen.

“Joan!”

“Your Grace?” she said with feigned innocence, her roses-and-cream complexion subtly coloring, her expression warming once more. She had a way of widening her eyes as she smiled, drawing me to smile with her despite her snub. I saw why two such worthies as Thomas Holland and William Montague had desired her.

“Mistress Alice deserves your sympathy, not your censure, Joan.” Queen Philippa proceeded to recount my story, how Father had set me against Mother in order to be joined with the Perrers family in marriage, and how Janyn had abandoned me with a young daughter.

The queen knew far more than I had imagined. It was agony to listen to her account of my life. But it was clear she knew precisely how to woo the countess.

“I pray you, forgive my discourtesy, Mistress Alice,” Joan implored as she crossed to me and took both my hands in hers. “Let us be friends.”

Of course I responded with warmth, though I doubted she would give a thought to me once I had left the room. A pity, for I quite liked her. She seemed more substantial than the other royal women, more alive.

S
HORTLY AFTER
the Christmas court, in a time of quiet weather, I asked leave to see Bella.

Still abed midday, resting from the festivities, Philippa said, “It was a pity our sister Joan did not attend the court and afford you the comfort of your dear daughter. I have little need of you until next Sunday. I shall arrange it.”

“Your Grace, I am most grateful. I have not seen my Bella since early summer, and letters are little comfort.”

She touched my hand and looked me long in the eyes. “You mourn your husband and your separation from your child. I am not blind to your grief, dear Alice. Yes, my child, you may see your daughter.”

My precious Bella had grown so in the half year since I had seen her that I was all the more aware of being robbed of her childhood.

“Where is Father?” Bella demanded. She looked more and more like Janyn, in coloring and in her dark, luxuriant mane of curly hair. “Why has he not brought my pony?”

I held her tight and confessed that I did not know where her father was, but promised her I was searching for him. She pushed away from me, looking over my shoulder, seeking him. I felt as I had done when forced to wean her, a terrible sense of separation, as if part of myself were no longer there. I feared she might grow to hate me, to see me as I saw my own mother. I needed to know the truth about Janyn, not only for me but for her.

• Spring 1361 •

I
T WAS
a winter of burials for the royal couple, and as I witnessed their grief I understood that even they were not immune from suffering. The death of Joan of Kent’s husband, Sir Thomas Holland, had been a blow to the king, for despite his impolitic marriage he had been one of Edward’s trusted commanders. The deaths of two
more of his captains swiftly followed. And then came the cruelest blow of all, the death of Henry of Grosmont, Duke of Lancaster and father of Blanche, wife of the king’s third son, John of Gaunt. Both Queen Philippa and King Edward, and indeed most of the barons, had considered the duke the foremost commander of the realm, and he had been a close friend to the royal couple. His requiem Mass was attended by all the noble families, but though it was a magnificent spectacle it was yet solemn. The king himself had contributed expensive brocade cloth for the vestments and livery, including gold brocade from Lucca for the pall. Some murmured that the brocade from Lucca might be infected with the pestilence, for the sickness was rumored to have returned, moving west and north from the Mediterranean as it had before.