The King's Concubine

‘Try the Tabard. At Southwark.’

That was as much as I got.

So I went back, where I had vowed I would never return, wheedling a ride in a wagon empty of all but the rank whiff of fish. I might own a manor and a house in London—I left both precious documents in Greseley’s care—but I was in debt to the tune of two gold nobles. Needs must. The coins did indeed open the doors of the Abbey to me, but they bought me no luxury. It was made clear to me that I must earn my keep and so I found myself joining the ranks of the conversa. A lay sister toiling for the benefit of the Brides of Christ. Perhaps it was the stink of salt cod clinging to my skirts that worked against me.

Why did I accept it?

Because the sanctuary it offered me was a temporary measure. I knew it, deep within me. I had supped in the outside world and found it to my taste. In those days of silent labour, a determination was born in me. I would never become a nun. I would never wed again at anyone’s dictates. At some point in the future, in Greseley’s clever hands, my land would bring me enough coin to allow me to live as a femme sole in my own house with my own bed and good clothing and servants at my beck and call.

I liked the image. It spurred me on as I scrubbed the nun’s habits and beat the stains from their wimples to restore them to pristine whiteness. I would make something of my life beyond the governance of others, neither nun nor wife nor whore. I would amount to something in my own right. But for now I was safe in the familiar surroundings of the Abbey, accepting the unchanging routine of work and prayer.

I’ll wait for better times, I had said to Greseley.

And I would wait with as much patience as I could muster. But not for too long, I prayed as my arms throbbed from wielding the heavy hoe amongst the Abbey cabbages.

I regretted the loss of my warm mantle.

Chapter Three

‘SHE’S here. She’s come.’ The whispers rustled like a brisk wind through a field of oats.

It was Vespers. We entered the Abbey church, the hush of habits and soft shoes a quiet sound against the paving, and we knelt, ranks of black veils and white wimples, I in a coarse fustian over-kirtle and hood with the rest of the conversa. Nothing out of the ordinary. The mind of every sister, choir or lay, centred on the need for God’s grace in a world of transgression. But not tonight. The sin of self-indulgence was rife, bright as the candle flames. Excitement was tangible, shivering in the air. For in the bishop’s own chair, placed to one side of the High Altar, sat the Queen of England.

From my lowly place in the choir stalls I could see nothing of Majesty, neither could I even hazard a guess as to why she would so honour us, the service proceeding as if that carved chair were unoccupied. The observance complete, the final blessing given, nuns and conversa stood as one, heads bowed, hands folded discreetly within sleeves. Mother Sybil genuflected before the altar and Majesty, still outside my vision, moved slowly through our midst towards the transept.

Slowly. Very slowly. Unobtrusively, I glanced out of the corner of my eye, my anticipation keen. In my life I had had only one brief acquaintance with a lady of the royal court. The Countess of Kent was a woman of some brilliance, a woman difficult to forget. She had taught me to mend her pens, and she taught me much else besides, mostly to my personal humiliation. As the Queen approached, I considered how the Countess had arrived at St Mary’s with dash and flair, announcing her arrival by courier and trumpet blast. How much more magnificent must be the Queen of England?

Even today I can recall my astonishment. I had envisaged a noble bearing, a gown in rich colours, sumptuous materials stitched with embroidery, with train and furred over-sleeves. A crown, a gold chain, gold and silver rings heavy with jewels. A presence of authority. I looked at the Queen of England, and looked again. She was well nigh invisible in her anonymity.

Philippa of Hainault.

The years had not treated this woman with gentleness. All trace of youth, any beauty she might have had as that young bride who had come to England from the Low Countries to wed our vigorous King Edward, more than thirty years ago now, all were lost to her. And where was the expression of regal power? She was not elegant. She was not tall. She did not overawe. She wore no jewels. As for her hair, it was completely obscured, every wisp and curl, by a severe wimple and veil. Queen Philippa was neither a handsome woman nor a leader of fashion.

Who could admire this aging, shuffling woman?

Majesty halted. There was the faintest gasp for breath. The Queen must be even older than I had thought. I looked again—longer than a glance—and chided myself for my lack of compassion. There was a reason for the excruciatingly slow progress. She was ill. She was in pain. With a hand resting heavily on the arm of her attendant, the Queen continued to make her small halting steps because each one pained her beyond endurance. It seemed to me that she could barely move her head, her neck and shoulders were so rigid with a spasm of the muscles. The hand that clutched the arm of her woman was swollen, the flesh as tight and shiny as the skin of a drum. No wonder she wore no rings. How would she push them beyond her swollen knuckles without unbearable discomfort?

Her Majesty was nearly level with me when she paused to draw another breath, and we curtseyed. I saw the substantial bosom of her gown rise sharply on the inhalation, her nostrils narrow and a crease deepen between her brows. Then the royal feet moved on—only to stumble on the uneven paving so that she fell. Without her grip on the arm of the young woman at her side, it would have been a disaster. As it was, she sank to her knees with a cry of agonised distress. Horrified by her suffering, I was unable not to look.

‘Help me,’ she murmured, of no one in particular, eyes closed tight in agony, her free hand outstretched to snatch at some invisible aid. ‘Dear God, help me!’ And Queen Philippa dropped her rosary beads. They slid from her fingers to fall with a little clatter of pearls and carved bone on the stones before her.

‘Help me to my feet …’

And because it seemed the obvious thing to do, the only thing to do, I stretched out my hand, and took hers in mine. I froze, my breath held hard. To take the hand of the Queen of England on sheer impulse? I would surely be punished for my presumption. I fell to my knees beside her as she gripped me as hard as she could. There was not much force in it, but she groaned as the skin covering her swollen flesh tightened with the effort.

‘Blessed Virgin!’ she murmured. ‘The pain is too much!’

The tension around us, the shocked stillness, held for a moment. Then all was movement and sound: the lady-in-waiting lifting Her Majesty to her feet in a flutter of anxiety; the Queen’s feverish clasp of my hand broken; the distress of her laboured breathing deepening. Looking up from where I was still on my knees, I discovered Queen Philippa in the midst of all the fuss regarding me. Once those eyes might have sparkled with happiness but now their rich brown hue was strained with years of suffering. I could not bear to see it, and lowered my gaze to where the rosary still lay on the floor. She was quite unable to stoop to recover the beads for herself, even if a woman of such rank would deem to pick up her own belongings.

So I picked it up for her.

I lifted the rosary and held it out, startled at my temerity, even without the sharp warning murmur of Mother Abbess, who was approaching, her habit billowing with the speed of her passage like a cloak in a gale, intent on snatching the rosary from me.

‘Thank you. I am very clumsy today, and you are very kind.’

Incredibly, the Queen’s words were for me. I felt the touch of her fingers on my hand. For a brief moment the devastation in her face was overlaid by a softness of gratitude.

‘Accept my apologies, Majesty.’ Mother Abbess directed toward me a look that boded ill for me in Chapter House the following day. ‘She should not have pushed herself forward in this manner. She has no humility.’

‘But she has come to my aid, like the good Samaritan to the traveller in distress,’ the Queen observed. ‘The Holy Virgin would honour such help to an old lady …’ She cried out, more sharply than before, one hand spread across the damask folds over her abdomen. ‘I need to sit down. My room, Isabella—take me to my room.’

And her attendant, with a fierce frown and a firm grip, lifted her to her feet.

‘I am so sorry, Isabella.’ The Queen’s voice caught on a sob.

‘You’re tired, Maman. Did I not say this was too much for you? You should listen to me!’

‘I am aware, Isabella. But some things needed to be done, and I could not wait.’

For the first time I did more than give passing cognisance to the Queen’s companion. So this was her daughter, the Princess Isabella. A tall, fair young woman with a sprightly demeanour and a barely disguised expression of utter boredom. How could I have ever mistaken her for a mere attendant? The Queen might be clothed in muted colours, but the Princess proclaimed her position in every embroidered thread and jewel from her gold crispinettes to her gilded shoes.

‘Some things could be left until you are recovered,’ Princess Isabella remarked crisply. I watched with pity as the little group made their way along the nave. At the Abbey door the Princess looked back, briefly, over her shoulder. Her gaze landed on me.

‘Don’t just stand there. Bring the rosary, girl.’

‘Something will turn up,’ I had said to Greseley. I did not need telling twice.

In spite of her daughter’s determination, the Queen refused to be put to bed.

‘I’ll be in my bed long enough when death takes hold of me.’

I stood inside the door of the Abbess’s parlour as the Queen was made comfortable in a high-backed chair with sturdy arms that would give her body some support. I could have put the rosary down on the travelling coffer beside the door and left, invisible to all as Isabella issued orders for a cup of heated wine and a fur mantle to warm the Queen’s trembling limbs. Stay! my instincts urged. So I stayed. If I stayed, perhaps the Queen would speak to me again. The kindness in her voice had stirred me, and now as I saw the woman behind the face of royalty, my heart hurt for her. She was ill, and her suffering was not only that of physical pain but also of grief. She was worn with it: black-cloaked death seemed to hover behind her shoulder. Never did I think to feel sorrow for a Queen, but on that evening I did.

‘Don’t tell the King, Isabella,’ she ordered, her voice harsh with exhaustion.

‘Why not?’ Isabella took her mother’s hand and pressed the wine cup into it.

‘Don’t speak of this. I forbid it. I do not wish him to be worried.’

Her eyes might still be closed, her voice a mere thread, but her will was strong. My admiration for her was profound, and my compassion. Did the King still love her? Had he ever loved her? Perhaps it was not expected between those of royal blood whose marriage had been contracted for political alliance. What must it be like to feel old and unwanted? And yet the Queen would protect her husband from concern over her pain.

It was as if she sensed the direction of my thoughts. Impatiently pushing aside Isabella’s hand with the cup, she straightened herself in the chair. And there it was after all. There was royalty. There was authority. In spite of the pain she could give her attention to me and smile. Her face warmed, the harsh lines smoothing, until she became almost comely. Had I thought her broad features lacked charm and beauty? I had been wrong.

She stretched out her hand with difficulty. ‘You have brought my rosary.’

‘Yes, Majesty.’

‘I told her to.’ Isabella poured a second cup of wine and drank it herself. ‘We were too busy with you to worry about a string of beads, if you recall, trying to prevent you from falling on the floor before a parcel of ignorant nuns.’