The King's Concubine

Sim thrust me back against the wall and I felt the familiar routine of his knee pushing between my legs.

‘I’d have you gelded if I had my way!’ I bit his hand.

Sim was far stronger than I. He laughed and wrenched the neck of my tunic. I felt it tear, and then the shoulder of my shift, and at the same time I felt the fragile string give way. Queen Philippa’s rosary, the precious gift that I had worn around my neck out of sight, slithered under my shift to the floor. I squirmed, escaped and pounced. But not fast enough. Sim snatched it up.

‘Well, well!’ He held it up above my head.

‘Give it back!’

‘Let me fuck you and I will.’

‘Not in this lifetime.’ But my whole concentration was on my beads.

So was Sim’s. He eyed the lovely strand where it swung in the light and I saw knowledge creep into his eyes. ‘Now, this is worth a pretty penny, if I don’t mistake.’

I snatched at it but he was running, dragging me with him. At that moment, as I almost tripped and fell, I knew. He would make trouble for me.

‘What’s this?’ Master Humphrey looked up at the rumpus.

‘We’ve a thief here, Master Humphrey!’ Sim’s eyes gleamed with malice.

‘I know you are, my lad. Didn’t I see you pick up a hunk of cheese and stuff it into your big gob not an hour ago?’

‘This’s more serious than cheese, Master Humphrey.’ Sim’s grin at me was an essay in slyness.

And in an instant we were surrounded. ‘Robber! Pick-purse! Thief!’ A chorus of idle scullions and mischief-making pot boys.

‘I’m no thief!’ I kicked Sim on the shin. ‘Let go of me!’

‘Bugger it, wench!’ His hold tightened. ‘Told you she wasn’t to be trusted.’ He addressed the room at large. ‘Too high an opinion of herself by half! She’s a thief!’ And he raised one hand above his head, Philippa’s gift gripped between his filthy fingers. The rosary glittered, its value evident to all. Rage shook me. How dared he take what was mine?

‘Thief!’

‘I am not!’

‘Where did you get it?’

‘She came from a convent.’ One voice was raised on my behalf.

‘I wager she owned nothing as fine as this, even in a convent.’

‘Fetch Sir Jocelyn!’ ordered Master Humphrey. ‘I’m too busy to deal with this.’

And then it all happened very quickly. ‘This belongs to Her Majesty.’ Sir Joscelyn gave his judgement. All eyes were turned on me, wide with disgust. ‘The Queen ill, and you would steal from her!’

‘She gave it to me!’ I was already pronounced guilty but my instinct was to fight.

‘You stole it!’

‘I did not.’

I tried to keep my denial even, my response calm, but I was not calm at all. Fear paralysed my mind. Much could be forgiven but not this. For the first time I learned the depth of respect for the Queen, even in the lowly kitchens and sculleries. I looked around the faces, full of condemnation and disgust. Sim and his cohort enjoying every minute of it.

‘Where’s the Marshall?’

‘In the chapel,’ one of the scullions piped up.

With the rosary in one hand and me gripped hard in the other Sir Joscelyn dragged me along and into the royal chapel, to the chancel where two labourers were lifting a wood and metal device of cogs and wheels from a handcart. There, keeping a close eye on operations, was Lord Herbert, the Marshall, whose word was law. And beside him stood the King himself. Despair was a physical pain in my chest.

‘Your Majesty. Lord Herbert.’

‘Not now, Sir Joscelyn.’ King and Marshall were preoccupied. All eyes were on the careful lifting of the contraption. We stood in silence as it was positioned piece by piece on the floor. ‘Good. Now …’

Edward turned to our importunate little group. So I was to be accused before the King himself, judged by those piercing eyes. I shivered as the evidence was produced, examined, the ownership confirmed, and I shivered even more as I was tried, condemned and sentenced by Lord Herbert to be shut in a cellar, all without listening to a word I said. And the King? He could barely snatch his concentration from the contraption at his feet, whilst I suffered for a crime I had not committed. Within the time it took to snap his fingers he would pass me over to the Marshall. It must not be! I would get his attention and keep it. And the flare of ambition and fiery resentment that I had felt under the tyranny of Countess Joan once more flickered over my skin.

I am worth more than this. I deserve more than this.

I wanted more than the half-life in the kitchens of Havering. I would make the King notice me.

‘Sire!’ I discovered a bold confidence. ‘I am the woman the Queen sent for. And this lout …’ I pointed a finger at Sim ‘… whO’s fit only to be booted out of this palace onto the midden, calls me a thief!’

‘Does he now!’ The King’s interest caught—but only mildly so.

I renewed my attack. ‘I appeal to you, Your Majesty, for justice. No one will listen to me. Is it because I am a woman? I appeal to you, Sire.’

The royal eyes widened considerably. ‘The King will always give justice.’

‘Not in your kitchens, Sire. Justice is more like a clip round the ear or a grope in a dark corner from this turd!’ I had absorbed a wealth of vocabulary during my time in the kitchens. I had the King’s attention now right enough.

‘Then I must remedy your criticisms of my kitchens.’ The sardonic reply held out little hope. ‘Did you steal this?’

‘No!’ Fear of close dark places, of being shut in the cellar, made me undaunted. ‘It is rightfully come by. Wykeham knows I did not steal it. He’ll tell you.’

Little good it did me. ‘He might,’ the King observed. ‘Unfortunately he’s not here but gone to Windsor.’

‘Her Majesty knows I did not.’ It was my last hope—but no hope at all.

‘We’ll not trouble Her Majesty.’ The King’s face was suddenly dark, contemptuous. ‘You’ll not disturb the Queen with this. Lord Herbert.’ The dark cellar loomed.

‘No!’ I gasped.

‘What is it that you will not trouble me with, Edward?’

And with that one question, the tiniest speck of hope began to grow in me.

A gentle voice, soft on the ear. Sir Joscelyn and Lord Herbert bowed. The King strode forward, so close to me that his tunic brushed against me, to take the Queen’s hand and draw her towards one of the choir stalls. His face changed, the lines of irritation smoothing, his lips softening. There was a tenderness, as if they were alone together. The Queen smiled up into his face, enclosing his hand in both of her own. Simple gestures but so strong, so affectionate. There was no doubting it. Taken up as I was with my own miseries, I could still see it and marvel at it. The King gave her a tender kiss on her cheek.

‘Philippa, my love. Are you strong enough to be here? You should be resting.’