The King's Mistress (29 page)

John of Gaunt often danced with me as well, as did his elder brother, Prince Edward.

But Gaunt also happened upon me in the gardens, far more often than seemed likely to be the workings of chance. “Do you not find it significant how often we seek out the same walk, Mistress Alice?” he teased me once. He was one of the handsomest men I had ever seen, but he was not only already married, he was as out of my reach as the king himself. I was disturbed by his attentions. In truth, his words often stung, suggesting that his game was not altogether friendly. Once, when I nervously prattled about the various flowers along the path on which we walked, he interrupted me.

“Ah! So you are schooled in the mysteries of gardens as well as costly cloths and clever tailoring, Mistress Alice. You are no common merchant’s daughter.”

I did not know what to make of him.

It was his father who often inhabited my wistful daydreams, smiling at me as we danced, as we hawked. But since Sheppey I had not spoken to the king, nor had I been in his presence except in crowds. I no longer caught him watching me, and though I prayed for the wisdom to be grateful, I was not. When I saw him walking with a woman other than the queen, my heart tightened with jealousy.

Despite my mourning Janyn, I could not ignore the way my body was reawakening, how it yearned again for the love of a man. Perhaps that is why I was not altogether displeased by Elizabeth’s news that William Wyndsor had inquired of her whether I was betrothed. She was thrilled for me.

“I cannot think of a more handsome man—except perhaps John of Gaunt, and as he is already taken, Wyndsor is the handsomest
eligible
man,” she said. “Would you have him if he asked Her Grace for your hand?”

Sir William’s effect on me suggested we would be well matched in bed, and for me to wed a knight would improve Bella’s prospects. But I did not know what was possible, whether the queen would permit me to wed and abandon court, leave her protection. Or perhaps the king and queen had another suitor in mind for me, a thought that could not but make me anxious. And over all these complexities hung both my own contradictory emotions about marrying again less than a year since losing Janyn and my feelings for the king.

To distract Elizabeth from more questioning, I tried to engage her in considering other eligible men. But she kept shifting the conversation back to William. I learned that his father and grandfather had
been loyal supporters of Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, who had opposed King Edward II before Isabella and Roger Mortimer had formed their rebellion, and that their families had suffered for it. His was another family that had risked everything by supporting someone who challenged the king, as Janyn’s mother’s family had done. Perhaps it was not so unusual. Perhaps William and I might be kindred spirits in our unease at court.

I did not fool myself that this was love, but I did enjoy his company and how alive I felt when with him.

The gift of such attention lay in awakening me to the pleasures all around me—my beautiful clothes, the wondrous palaces in which I lived, my Melisende, the music in the hall, and the dancing that sent me to bed happily exhausted. In the garden I drank in the beauty in which I walked. I particularly enjoyed strolling with young Philippa, called Pippa, and Katherine, naming the plants for them, encouraging them to try to remember the garden in their home in Hainault. They remembered little, for they had been so very young when brought to England, but they surprised themselves with tidbits of memories and seemed truly happy when they did so. The queen remarked on my revived spirits, how I enlivened her daily gatherings.

Geoffrey, too, noticed my improved mood and accused me of being in love with William. I laughed so much as I denied it that he smugly declared he was right. I refused either to worry or feel guilty about my heart’s awakening.

In August dire news of more deaths from the pestilence was tempered by the exciting rumor that Prince Edward had secretly wed his cousin, the Countess Joan. Being in such close contact with the queen I almost immediately saw that it must be true, for the queen’s fury was impossible for her to hide from us. Her body reeked of rage.

“That whore” was how Joan, once so dear to her, came to be known in Philippa’s chamber. It seemed that Joan’s having been raised at court deepened the offense, for she “should know better.” The king’s representatives had been involved in negotiations all year for a marriage between the prince and Margaret of Flanders, the young, wealthy, and beautiful only child of the count of Flanders and his wife, the widow of the duke of Burgundy. The betrothal would have bound the Flemings to the English at a crucial time for such a liaison. But we were soon informed that a messenger had gone to the Pope to annul Joan and
Edward’s clandestine vows and to grant the dispensations necessary for the cousins to wed formally. As the deed had been done, the king would see it through. Planning began for an autumn wedding.

“Such an extravagance. The bribes to the Pope! The festivities! And she brings no alliance with another royal house,” the queen muttered. “That whore.”

I had conflicting loyalties, Joan having taken such an interest in me. I was confused to realize that even as she had spoken to me with such anger about men, she had been falling in love with Prince Edward. I watched her now with keen interest, trying to learn how she both loved a man and honored herself.

I prayed for the wisdom to know when to be more like Joan and when to be meek. I felt that in my life so far I had been more the latter—oh, yes, I had expressed my passion to Janyn and Geoffrey and a few others very close to me, yet I obeyed. I always obeyed. And it had earned me only heartache. But I also appreciated that there must be something in me that drew people to me, for in so many ways I was blessed. I felt more accepted among the queen’s ladies of late, and Geoffrey was loyal, Richard Lyons was proving a careful guardian of my finances, and Dom Hanneye wrote often with prayers and guidance.

I do not believe I would have had the courage to do what I did next had Countess Joan’s influence not fanned a flame within me.

O
N A
stormy August afternoon a page announced to me that Geoffrey waited to speak to me just outside the chapel, in the little porch. As I took my leave of the women with whom I’d been sewing, I prayed for strength to bear whatever it was my friend had come to tell me. For by his choice of a meeting place where we would not be overheard—the storm would keep strollers away—I knew it must be terrible news.

His leggings were saggy with rain, and though he wore a short garment fashionably padded around the chest there was yet a caved-in quality to his torso that spoke of sorrow. He stood with chin up, apparently studying the carved figures decorating the arched doorway. As I moved closer I saw that it was not just his leggings that were limp and dirty, but that his formerly bright-red-and-sharp-black gown needed to be dried and brushed.

“You’ve traveled far?”

Now he lowered his head to look at me and I saw the unease in his expressive eyes. “Not so far. To London and back. But I was there a few days.”

“Geoffrey—you have been to the city? Risked the pestilence?”

“I was worried about my family.”

“Who is dead?” I asked, a question uppermost in everyone’s mind when someone arrived from London.

He crossed himself. “I am sorry to tell you, Alice, but your mother, your brother Will, and Master Martin Perrers have all been taken by the sickness.”

“So many!” I gasped. I would have fallen to my knees if Geoffrey had not caught my elbows and drawn me to him.

I remember the sound of rain thundering on the porch roof overhead and how cold my feet were from the splashing of the rain on the stone threshold. I had one of those odd practical thoughts that intrude in times of sudden, awful news—when I returned to the hall my tears would look like rain and no one would comment.

“I am so sorry, Alice, so very sorry. I wanted you to know as soon as I heard.”

“How long ago?”

“Will died yesterday, your mother and Master Martin a few days ago.”

“I will go to Father,” I declared into his shoulder. This loss would be a terrible blow to him. I worried even more for my sister, Mary. He patted my back.

“He has your sister to comfort him.”

“But who comforts her?”

My head pounded, and as I gasped for breath, sobs rose up and overwhelmed me. Geoffrey held me all the while, though the wind picked up and the small roof above us gave us little protection. When I stopped weeping, he drew me into the chapel and took off his shoes, draining the water from them.

I did not care about my own wet clothes, but knelt to pray for the souls departed, and for the survivors—my brother John, my sister Mary, and Father. I do not know when Geoffrey knelt beside me, or when Gwen arrived to cover me with a mantle and kneel at my other side. But they were both there when at last I lifted my head. Gwen wanted to hurry me back to my chamber to change into dry clothes, but I waved her off.

“Geoffrey, you must tell me all that you know. We can go to the hall and sit near the fire.”

“No, I must away to change into clean, dry clothes. If anyone sees me looking like this, they will guess I’ve been to the city and I’ll be sent away. In truth, I do not wish to return to London at present.”

“You will not take me?”

He looked at me, as horrified as if I had asked him to swallow a live rat.

“Alice, you cannot mean to go to the city? What if the queen were to learn you had been there? She would send you away. And then where would you go?”

Surely she would understand my need. This was my family. “What of you? You risked it.”

“And I’ve brought you news of your family so you need not go. Besides, there is still danger for you there.”

“I sometimes wonder whether that danger has been overstated.”

Geoffrey’s expression was carefully veiled, but I could see that he no longer doubted it.

“There is some rumor you would keep from me?” I asked.

I watched the skirmish on his expressive face, heart versus head. Heart won.

“Master Martin Perrers dined with guild members the day of his death, and he had seemed quite well then, showing no signs of illness.”

My breath stuck in my throat. Another victim of Isabella’s cursed secret? “He was murdered?”

“That is the suggestion.”

I crossed myself with a trembling hand. “What was the condition of his body?”

Geoffrey shook his head. “I do not know. The dead are buried so quickly.”

“Do you think it was the trouble with Isabella of France?”

“Or that he had other dangerous connections. A friend told me Master Martin had seemed frightened of late. He went abroad with two large men protecting him.”

“Where are they now?”

“His servants have not seen them since they found their master’s body in his parlor.”

So much loss. My heart was heavy with grief. “May God grant him peace,” I whispered.

“So, you see, you should not go to your father.” Geoffrey squirmed
in his wet clothes. “Nor would you wish to. They say he is a changed man, sullen, suspicious, unkempt.”

I felt my childhood, my entire past, being ripped away from me where I stood. “Is he ill?”

“No. But like so many, he cannot cope with the horror of so much death and seems to have lost his wits, his speech lacking temperance and sense.”

“Poor Mary! If Father is so changed, what must it be like for her?”

“She has Nan, does she not?”

She did, I supposed, though even that I could not know for certain. “I pray Dame Agnes takes an interest in Mary.” My grandmother might see her duty, yet be too busy trying to keep herself and my grandfather safe to act on it. I yearned to go to Mary, my sweet, precious sister, left all alone.

In the hall during the evening meal I found myself wondering what Joan would do in my place. But she would never be in my place. No one would forbid her to go to a member of her family who was in need. I was poor company to those seated near me.

When I rose from the table William Wyndsor approached me, inquiring about my pale face and sorrowful air. Even in my grief I noticed how elegant he looked in dark green and gold. The colors called attention to his eyes, which now regarded me with affection and concern. I wished I might pour out my heart to him. I thought I might at least tell him enough so that he would not feel as if I were shunning him.

“In faith, I am in mourning, Sir William, for my mother and a brother.”

“I knew that I read great sorrow in your eyes and manner, my dear Mistress Alice. May God grant them peace.” He bowed his head and crossed himself, and then he took me by the hand and drew me away from the crowd, into a quiet corner of the hall. “Did they die of the pestilence?” he asked in a low voice.

I hesitated to acknowledge the horrible truth, as if it might somehow not be fact as long as I did not voice it. But I needed to admit the truth, to accept it. “Yes, the pestilence took them.” My heart clenched.

His sympathetic expression threatened my composure. “Will you go to be with your family?”

“No, I cannot.”

“But they are in London, are they not? So near. Surely you must wish to see them?”

It was too much. The tears came and I sobbed, “Yes, I wish to see them, but the queen forbids it.”

“Indeed?” His tone turned angry. It was enough to distract me from my self-pity. “The king would have us behave as if there is no danger, but the queen forbids her own household to enter the city?” William had grown quite loud.

I’d heard of his famous temper, but this was the first time I had witnessed it. I did not wish to call attention to myself. “Might we walk out into the air? My head is aching.”

We escaped to the castle yard, where the heavy damp heat combined with the smoke from many torches caused my head to pound even more. I led us around strolling couples, clusters of men crouched over games or drunkenly insulting one another, past the armed guards positioned at regular intervals, to a walk that led to a walled garden, the torchlight from the castle yard and light spilling out from the hall allowing me to find the way. William kept a hand beneath my elbow.