The People's Queen (39 page)

It might have been better for Alice if she'd kept a low profile for longer.

But in the early days of January, as she let out her laces after weeks of rich food and festivities (she's not so pointy now), something about the combined facts of being back in the company of a King who no longer shows any signs of dying imminently, but is about to celebrate his first fifty years on the throne, and of being high in the favour of the son who's really ruling the land, and, what's more, being the mother of a knight of the realm, and having so much to play for when the next stage begins, encourages her to relax her guard.

For the first time in a long time, the confident phrase 'seize the day' starts coming back to her lips.

The Duke of Lancaster is displeased, though he can't explain why, even to himself.

Whenever he goes to see his father at Havering, Madame Perrers is there, hovering in the bedchamber, listening, joining in the private talk between father and son, even. And she's all puffed up with her dark certainties, with knowing eyes he doesn't want to look into. He no longer wants to remember that his own eyes, back in the autumn, when he talked so often with her, were perhaps full of those same dark certainties.

When he looks uncomfortably back, now, on that time with her, he finds it easy to think; She was egging me on to violence. She was using me to get the vengeance she wanted. She's manipulative; devilishly manipulative. It was because of her that I had de la Mare arrested. It was her idea for me to give March the fright of his life and send him running off to Ireland.

Not that he minds having done those things, exactly. Those men deserved punishment. Not that he resents having been influenced to call a Parliament quite as certainly obedient as the one that will meet any day in Westminster, either. No point in allowing inferiors to get insubordinate. Power lies with the Crown, not the scarecrows from the fields of England.

It's just that he doesn't like that look in her eyes, or some of the things she's still saying. Because, even now, now that he's realised he doesn't want discord, he feels she's still trying to push him into further aggression. Unnecessary aggression. And she makes him feel a coward for not wanting it.

For instance, Madame Perrers has been turning up her nose at the thought of the proper peace talks that are to begin this month, to try one more time to avert more war in April. The Duke will not participate personally. The talks will be at a lower level, to save expense, with England represented by Richard's guardian, the Gascon knight Sir Guichard d'Angle, Sir Richard Stury (out of jail now), Lord Thomas Percy, brother of the new Marshal of England, and Chaucer. There are plenty of offers on the table, including Chaucer's idea of a marriage between Richard and the French king's seven-year-old daughter, Marie. Reading Chaucer's dispatches, the Duke has allowed himself hope. It just might work.

But Madame Perrers doesn't seem impressed. She quibbles over the composition of the English delegation, for a start; 'Chaucer?' she sniffs. 'Well,
he
won't do much good, will he?' And she hardly hears the Duke's hopes out before wrinkling her nose as if she smells something off, and asking, with something like disdain, 'But you don't want peace, do you? Don't you want a glorious victory?'

That's not a question he can answer no to, of course. He is a prince, the sword arm of the nation, and every law of chivalry dictates that he should bear arms.

So, as the peace talks begin in Boulogne, John of Gaunt is emphasising in his talks with his father (which means, effectively, talks with Alice Perrers) the activities of the Parliament now meeting at Westminster. This tame Parliament makes no bones at all about voting to give the Crown money for more war. 'Good,' says Alice, when John reports this to his father. 'The glory of Englishmen under arms...' And the old man's eyes sparkle, as she must have known they would.

The Commons, after consultations with the Lords, decide on a novel form of tax. Instead of bearing the brunt of payment themselves, as usual, they've proposed sharing the burden out, and charging every man and woman in the land 4d. There's never been a universal tax in England before, but it makes perfect sense to the knights and merchants of the Commons, who've chafed for years at the outrageous wage demands of the lower orders. Let
them
share the burdens, too, the knights mutter to each other; let
them
see life's not always a tranquil river. They're calling it a poll tax in the streets of London. (They're calling this the Bad Parliament, too.)

Now, even though John is still privately hoping the peace talks will get somewhere, he doesn't talk with Alice about those hopes. That she sees them as dishonourable coincides perfectly with what his father and the knights of England have tended to believe, and say, all his life; it undermines his timid sense that England might, in reality, be better served by peace than by war. What he does talk about with Alice is the plans he's also making for war, guided by her. He's preparing to gather a fleet in the Port of London, ready for another naval offensive once the truce expires. He can't tell her about the dread he feels, inside, when he thinks of those ships. Best be prepared, Alice Perrers says cheerfully. Seize the day.

She's a clever woman, Alice Perrers, he thinks discontentedly. He knows her advice is often canny, although, more and more, he's uncomfortable being in a room with her (because what will she think of next?). Best be prepared: you can't argue with that. But there's no doubt about it, she's a hard one. Can't stop pushing; nagging. And how strident her voice can be. It makes his head ache.

He avoids her eye. His visits become shorter. But, in February, when the London merchants' favourite bishop, Courtenay of London, calls in John Wyclif to face heresy charges, Alice does come up with more demands.

'But Wyclif's
your
man,' she tells him from behind his father's shoulder. Flint in her eyes, John thinks unhappily; she's harder than diamonds. 'He was your negotiator at Bruges. This is an attack on
you.
And you've been very soft on the bishops until now. They were against you last year too, you know; it wasn't just the knights. Shouldn't you be punishing them? Defending your honour?'

John knows what she's up to. Alice wants to see Courtenay suffer; she still wants to make those London merchants squirm, he sees; and it's true, there's been no retribution against the City for the merchants' part in last year's Parliament. But John's desires are different now. He wants to go to Kettlethorpe, as soon as the baby's born, before he has to face up to the like-lihood of more war, and be with Katherine. He's done enough.

Yet honour is paramount, he knows. And she's called this a question of honour.

Miserably, he nods. He'll go to London, then. He'll support Wyclif at his hearing.

Alice doesn't know why the Duke looks so furious when, unexpectedly, he gallops into the courtyard at Havering a week later, and flings himself down from his horse, and, leaving his escort in the yard, strides straight into his father's rooms.

Alice is putting Edward into a chair by the window, tucking the shawls around him so they prop him up, putting cushions at his back and behind his head.

She sketches a bow; she thinks of smiling and saying gracious words of welcome, but then she sees from his face that this is no time for graciousness. She tries, at least, to catch his eye and share a private glance.

'Leave us, please, Madame Perrers,' he says curtly, looking away. 'I want to talk privately with my lord the King.'

So she goes. She has no choice, now he's been that blunt.

But of course she goes no further than the courtyard, to find out from the snippets of conversation brought by the knights of the body, and the men-at-arms, and the grooms, what's got his goat.

And so she's downstairs, outside, with the steam of horse-breath and the jingle of harness, and the excitable shouting of the men, who seem to have been in some sort of armed conflict she can't make head or tail of, when the second unexpected delegation turns up.

The second lot are City men, in gowns. Not Alice's most direct enemies of yesteryear, she sees with relief, but people she's never had much to do with: this year's Mayor, the mercer Adam Stable, and the draper John de Northampton, and Robert Lounde the goldsmith - his two sheriffs, Alice assumes.

The three merchants are already wringing their hands and looking anxious, but they look more worried still when they see that the other men already stamping around in the courtyard are wearing the S-linked chains of the Duke of Lancaster's livery. They huddle, prudently, to one side, leaving the Lancastrians as much space as possible, and are eager to be taken inside and asked their business.

And so, between one lot and the other, Alice soon establishes what's happened.

The City men say the Duke turned up armed and terrifying at Wyclif's heresy hearing in St Paul's Cathedral, and lost his temper, in public, with Bishop Courtenay. He threatened the Bishop with arrest. A London man was arrested, illegally, by the Duke's men. Rioting ensued.

The Duke's men say that, after their master necessarily disciplined miscreants in London, a howling mob poured out of the City walls and down the Strand to the Savoy, where they were only stopped at the very last minute from burning the whole palace down.

The City men say it was Bishop Courtenay himself who bravely stopped the mob.

The Duke's men say: Because he was scared he'd pay for it with his life if the palace was sacked.

The Duke's men also say their master only escaped with his life by a miracle. By running through the Savoy gardens at full tilt, and throwing himself in a boat, and rowing with all speed over the river.

The City men say they've come here to talk to the King, and beg him to restore peace in their relations with the Duke.

The Duke's men don't say anything. It's clear they don't have peace with the City in mind.

Nodding quietly to herself, Alice says to Mayor Stable, whom she has nothing particular against, and whose gingery cheeks are pink with panic, 'I'll go and have a word with my lord. I'll see whether he's minded to receive you.'

She doesn't let herself sound too optimistic. Let him stew.

Still, this is the excuse she wants to get back into the conversation upstairs.

Quietly, she edges into the room. She can see Edward's face: he's horrified, though at least alert; following what's being said. Shaking his head.

'...the worst thing I could imagine,' she hears the Duke saying. 'Losing all that...' His voice is hollow; haunted. As he comes into view, she sees his face has lost its earlier fury. He's as pale as death.

Now that she understands, she's furious on his behalf. He's been ambushed. By a mob. Savages. No wonder he wanted privacy in which to pour out his story.

She's aware that there's something negative that comes over his face when he realises she's back in the room. But she's only here to help; discreetly she murmurs, 'My lords...a deputation from the City...Mayor Stable.'

At that bad news, the Duke immediately launches himself to his feet. The stool he's been perching on rolls over backwards. He doesn't notice. He's too angry. He paces over to the next window and, with pinched lips and white nostrils, stares out at the extra horses that have appeared.

She keeps her eyes down. She lets the Duke be. She takes her place on another stool beside Edward, and reaches for his hand.

Edward looks down at her, as if for guidance. She pats his hand.

'Well, they must be punished,' she says very gently. 'The London rebels. My love, you must see that.'

'But...' Edward mumbles. 'But...'

She can see that all he's understood is that, if the leaders of London are here, he can call them to him and, somehow, patch things up.

'You can't let them get away with trying to burn down the Savoy,' she says. 'Or threatening to excommunicate your son. You must make an example.'

Edward looks confusedly at her again. Yet, for once, he knows his own mind. After a moment or two, he shakes his head. He says, 'Tell the good men of London to come to me now; I'll hear them.'

She looks uncertainly back.

Edward pats her hand, and then lets it go. 'Please, my dear,' he says, quavering but decided. 'Now. And John; we'll talk again when I've heard what they've got to say.'

He nods at them both. It's dismissal.

Outside in the corridor, heading for the stairs, Alice sees Duke John is more enraged than ever, as wild-eyed and flaring-nostrilled as a sweating horse, pawing the ground, ready to buck or bolt. With his father's decision, she assumes.

She says, 'Don't be downhearted, my lord.'

Silence. He purses his lips. She says, 'Your moment will come.'

His stride lengthens. She's forced into a trot to keep up. 'You'll be able to give these upstarts the drubbing they deserve then,' she says breathlessly.

Perhaps it's because of getting out of breath, or because he's so dejected and so irate; she doesn't know why, exactly. But she adds, in the cosy kind of voice you might use if talking to a child crying over a grazed knee, 'When you're King.'

That does it. He goes berserk. He stops. He glares. He puts hands on hips. He grows even paler. And he snarls with a rage she's never seen before, rage against her: 'King, what do you mean King?' She suddenly sees that he hates her. 'You evil bloody Jezebel, are you trying to make a traitor of me now?'

Alice stops too. She's staring back at him. She has no idea, no idea; is this just caused by his recent fright? What else can have prompted this?

Then their eyes meet. His face is slack with the intensity of his thought, as if he's only just seeing her for what she is, and utterly despises it. 'Tell me this, Madame Perrers. How can I be King,' he says, quieter now, but just as hatefully, 'unless my father dies, and my nephew dies too?'

Alice thinks, with something like panic: But that's what
you...

And: But I've only ever wanted what
you...

And now he's blaming
her
for what he once wanted.