The King's Mistress (31 page)

“I did not think it appropriate, Your Grace. I am answerable to Her Grace, Queen Philippa.”

“Remember Sheppey, Mistress Alice. I swore there you would be happy.” He kissed me on either cheek. I was glad he still held my shoulders, for I feared I might have dropped to my knees had I not been so supported.

A page escorted me back to my chamber.

Gwen met me at the door with a fierce hug and then pulled me into the room and shut the door, leaning against it. I saw by her ravaged face and by the twisted cloth in her hand that she had been weeping and worrying all the while.

“Forgive me, Mistress Alice, but I must know—are we to be punished for disobeying Her Grace?”

“As I told you on the barge, the king defended our action. In truth, he understands.” But I was still unsure how the queen might treat me. She had her own subtle methods of punishment. “Have we been summoned?”

“You are to make her almond milk this evening.”

A private conversation. I dreaded it.

“And you are to bathe, and all the clothing we wore is to be burned so that we might not bring the pestilence into her rooms. I have already bathed and changed.”

After the evening meal I followed Her Grace to her chamber with trepidation. But she expressed only pleasure that I was able to give comfort to my family, and then said no more about the incident. I had expected at least to sense in her some irritation with me, even if she did not speak of it, but I detected no such animosity in her behavior. I found that most strange considering how adamant she had been that I not go into the city to see my family. Even if the king had convinced her of my need to do so this one time, I would have thought to encounter some resentment. But she treated me as if I had not in any wise displeased her. I expressed deep remorse for disobeying her. She said she understood, and spoke of her own grief at the loss of so many friends and relations.

That night I cried for my losses and those of the queen, and relived precious moments with my sweet brother Will, his life so brief.

As if to compensate for such heartbreak, I also dreamed of William Wyndsor, of lying with him, exploring his naked body. The memory of the dream excited and confused me—confused me because I could imagine lying with him and delighted in that imagining, but in the light of day could not see him as Bella’s foster father. Something about him did not feel trustworthy enough to share him with my precious daughter. Or perhaps I was still too bedazzled by the king’s kindness.

T
O MY
amazement, from that time King Edward began once more to make note of me, often pausing to speak to me after morning
Mass. He chose mundane topics, such as the weather or the music in the hall the previous night. I responded with modest gratitude, eyes cast down, desperate not to reveal my adoration. I did not need to look at him to feel his eyes upon me. All my senses seemed tuned to him. His attention was like manna to me in my loneliness. I prayed to have the wit not to make too much of it.

In late summer Queen Philippa withdrew to her bed for days after the pestilence took her two youngest daughters, Margaret and Mary. It was a terrible blow to the queen, to have her young chicks, both recently married and launched into their new lives, cut down within a month of each other. She was inconsolable. She had never been close to her one surviving daughter, Isabella, the king’s favorite. Margaret and Mary had been her heart’s delight.

On the second morning on which I attended Mass without her, King Edward paused in the corridor as had become his habit, but instead of a brief exchange of pleasantries he invited me to go hawking. Our party included only the falconer, two grooms, and the pair of us.

“I did not think either of us would wish for the noise of a crowd,” the king said.

I was glad that I had recently taken in the waist on my Lincoln green riding robe as was now the fashion and replaced the old feathers in my hat with new, brighter ones. The king and I spoke little, attending to our hawks and horses, allowing the woodland and the soaring birds to soothe our spirits. I was aware of him watching me as I talked to my merlin, but did not turn his way. Apart from my attraction to him, I felt a bond of quite another sort between us when we rode through the woodland, into the wind, free to shout, to laugh with abandon, to wonder at the perfection of beauty, grace, and unbridled power exhibited by our birds. Away from court we were at ease together without speech, alike in our appreciation of God’s magnificent creation. At peace.

The king invited me again the following day, and the day after that, and on the fourth morning, after our hunt, we talked a little of our recent sorrows. I was glad if I might help the king in his grief as he had helped me. We stood side by side in the middle of a pretty meadow. The falconer had retrieved our birds and departed. Only the grooms were with us, and they were off to one side, holding our horses at the edge of the wood.

“In a year I have lost so many men who fought beside me, on whom I depended and trusted without question to defend my kingdom. They
were brothers-in-arms and brothers in my heart, my dearest friends. And now I’ve lost two of my precious daughters, both of them so young.”

King Edward’s eyes stayed fixed on the trees, as if he could not trust himself to look at another while he voiced his loss.

Without thinking, I took one of his great hands and squeezed it. I do not know what inspired such audacity. He looked down at me in surprise, then gave me the saddest smile I had ever seen.

“I cannot speak my heart to many people, Mistress Alice. Even my queen reminds me that I am king and must not show any weakness.”

“No one will know, Your Grace,” I promised. “In faith, I do not understand how anyone would think ill of you for grieving for your daughters.”

“A commander may grieve for his men-at-arms. No one else.”

“I do not understand how God means us to live our lives,” I said as I fought for composure. “We both strive to be good, to fulfill our duties. I do not understand His purpose in testing us with so much loss.”

The king drew me to him then and kissed me on the lips, a peck, no more, then kissed my forehead, and held me close for a moment. I heard his great heart thundering, and reached up one hand to touch his pale hair. He lifted my chin and thanked me for my friendship, then released me.

“Your Grace, I am your good and faithful friend.” I bowed to him even though he was not looking my way, relieved to hear none of my terror reflected in my voice.

He nodded, still not looking at me. I wondered what he was thinking.

“Our horses wait,” he said, striding away.

I followed him, my heart swelling with joy. He had kissed me, he had held me. My good sense quickly intervened, shouting warnings. I should not have touched him, for I doubted he would have kissed me, be it ever so chastely, had I not taken his hand. I could not believe I’d actually had the gall to touch his hair. I would be sent from court. Sent from him. I could not bear that. I prayed for a sign from God as to what I should do, how I might avoid further temptation. It was a sin, coveting another’s spouse. I could not betray his wife, my queen and mistress. Yet I could not stop thinking of how it felt to be in his arms, to feel his lips on my skin. Every part of me had been intensely aware of him, intensely aroused.

He did not attend Mass the next morning. I told myself it was for the best. Indeed, it was my salvation. I obviously needed a mate, a husband. Perhaps Geoffrey had been right about William Wyndsor—he might do nicely. He might save me from my dangerous, foolish obsession with the king. That evening I looked for him in the hall. I had not seen him since our journey to London, and feared that the only likely reason he might be avoiding me was that he knew of my mornings with the king. I remembered his suspicion when the king’s men arrived at Dame Agnes’s house. Eventually I learned from one of his friends that William had been sent north to the border near Scotland. He had received his orders the day after our excursion. It was an honorable posting, but unexpected. I expressed disappointment for having had no opportunity to bid him good fortune.

God forgive me, as I left the hall I was almost dancing with relief that William was not there to save me from the king.

• Autumn 1361 •

I
HAD LITTLE
time to brood over my feelings for the king. The queen devoted most of her waking hours and mine to planning the official wedding of Prince Edward and Countess Joan. She was
determined to set aside her disappointment in the match and make the best of the situation. As for all such festivities, the entire household would receive special garments for the event so that all contributed to the theme. Green and white were the prince’s colors, so although the wedding would take place in October, rather than echoing the autumn bounty and colorful decay, the chosen colors suggested the freshness and promise of spring.

I needed all my wits to adjust and readjust to the queen’s imperious demands and shifting moods. She was moved to see her son and foster daughter so happy, but furious that they had been meeting at the home of Joan’s former sister-in-law, a woman who had recently made a scandalous marriage herself. The queen seemed grateful for an excuse to lift her spirits and those of the court with an extravagant feast, but resented the fact that here would be no political gain. This was a marriage that would afford the family no new strategic alliances. Whether joy or resentment would dominate at any moment proved impossible for me to predict. I attended the queen’s every gesture or change of tone trying to respond in the way that seemed safest at the time. Every night I fell into bed exhausted. But there were moments too in which Philippa expressed her appreciation—and that made up for much. She could be most generous with both gifts and praise.

In late September I was in the royal family’s party accompanying the coffins of Mary and Margaret to the abbey at Abington. Although folk came out to honor the solemn royal procession as we rode through villages, their demeanor was solemn and often frightened—plague corpses, no matter how royal, were to be feared. But of course the villagers were filled with awe to see their king and queen, and it was in their eyes as they stared at me too, wondering who I might be in my fur-lined cloak and beautiful leather boots, riding a magnificent horse. I was reminded how those outside the court would perceive my place in the queen’s household. Mine was an honored position, and I was fortunate beyond imagining.

I still felt adrift among the courtiers. But I saw the faces of those villagers again when I tried to sleep, and in my imagination they watched me as I lifted the queen’s delicately embroidered night shift from the trunk and walked across stone floors strewn with fragrant flowers and fresh rushes. I lived amid beauty and abundance, in comfort and safety. Those faces taught me humility and gratitude.

I had sent a message to Dom Hanneye by a clerk in our party
who was continuing on to Oxford. I hoped that my beloved confessor, whom I saw only occasionally when he accompanied his bishop to London, might find some way to come to me in Abington. To my immense relief he arrived the day before we were to begin our return journey, and the queen gave me leave to spend some time with him.

With each new loss in my life Dom Hanneye grew dearer to me, for he had known all those for whom I grieved. He had lost weight; his once roundly childlike face seemed drawn as if he did not sleep well. At first we reminisced about the loved ones I’d lost. We wept and embraced. Only when the dead had been lovingly honored did I ask the question that weighed on my conscience.

“Do you think God and the Blessed Mother look down on me in disgust as the most ungrateful woman on earth when I have so much here?”

It eased my heart to have Dom Hanneye assure me that anyone in my situation would grieve.

“I watched you with Her Grace in the chapel. You saw to her every need and treated her with respect and love. You fulfill your duties with compassion and grace, Dame Alice. I find no fault in you.”

He suggested what he had before, that I seek the path of acceptance, look for contentment in simple joys and offer my suffering to God.

“Much as monks and nuns do throughout their daily tasks,” he said. “But in far more comfort.” His teasing smile eased the sting.

“I am grateful that you came. Your reassurance comforts me as no one else’s. But tell me, how did you receive permission and hie down here in such haste?”