The King's Concubine

‘I have been resting for the past week. I wish to see the clock.’

‘You don’t look strong.’

‘Don’t fuss, Edward. I feel better.’

She did not look it. Rather she was drawn and grey.

‘Sit down, my dear.’ The King pushed her gently to the cushioned seat. ‘Does your shoulder pain you?’

‘Yes. But it is not fatal.’ The Queen sat up straight, cradling her left elbow in her right palm, and surveyed what I realised was the makings of a clock. ‘It is very fine. When will you get it working?’ Then she noticed the number of people in the chapel. ‘What’s happening here?’

The Marshall cleared his throat. ‘This girl, Majesty.’ He glowered at me.

As the Queen looked at me, I saw the memory return, and with it recognition. Awkwardly she turned her whole body in her chair until she was facing me. ‘Alice?’

‘Yes, Majesty.’ I curtseyed as best I could since my arm was still in the grip of Lord Herbert, as if I might make a bid for freedom.

‘I sent Wykeham to fetch you.’ Philippa’s forehead was furrowed with the effort of recall, as if it were a long time ago. ‘You must have arrived when I was ill.’

‘Yes, Majesty.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘Working in your kitchens.’

‘Are you?’ She appeared astonished. Then gave a soft laugh. ‘Who sent you there?’

‘The Princess Isabella.’ Sir Joscelyn was quick to apportion blame elsewhere. ‘She thought that was your intent.’

‘Did she? I doubt my daughter thought at all beyond her own desires. You should have known better, Sir Joscelyn.’

An uncomfortable silence lengthened until Lord Herbert pronounced, ‘The girl is a thief, Your Majesty.’

‘Are you?’ the Queen asked.

‘No, Majesty.’

Edward held out the rosary. ‘I’m afraid she is. Is this yours, my love?’

‘Yes. Or it was. You gave it to me.’

‘I did? The girl was wearing it.’

‘I expect she would. I gave it to her.’

‘I told them that, my lady,’ I appealed, ‘but they would not believe me.’

‘To a kitchen maid? Why would you do that?’ The King spread his hands in disbelief.

The Queen sighed. ‘Let go of her, Lord Herbert. She’ll not run away. Come here, Alice. Let me look at you.’

I discovered that I had been holding my breath. When the Queen held out her hand I fell to my knees before her in gratitude, returning her regard when her tired eyes moved slowly, speculatively, over my face. As if she was trying to anchor some deep wayward thought that was not altogether pleasing to her. Then she nodded and touched my cheek.

‘Who would have thought so simple a thing as a gift of a rosary would cause so much trouble?’ she said, her smile wry. ‘And why should it take the whole of the royal household to solve the matter?’ Pushing herself to her feet, she drew me with her, taking everything in hand with a matriarchal authority. ‘Thank you, Sir Joscelyn. Lord Herbert. I know you have my interests at heart. You are very assiduous, but I will deal with this. This girl is no thief, forsooth. Now, give me your arm, Alice. Let me put some things right.’

I helped her from the chapel, conscious of her weight as we descended the stair, and of the King’s muttered comment that, thank God, I was no longer his concern. As we walked slowly towards the royal apartments, a warm expectancy began to dance through my blood. Maidservant? Tirewoman? I still could not imagine why she would want me, given the wealth of talent around her, but I knew there was something in her mind. Just as I sensed that from this point my life, with its humdrum drudgery and servitude, would never be the same again.

My immediate destiny was an empty bedchamber—unused, I assumed, from the lack of furnishings and the dust that swirled as our skirts created a little eddy of air. And in that room: a copper-bound tub, buckets of steaming water and the ministrations of two of the maids from the buttery. I was simply handed over.

With hot water and enthusiasm, buttressed by a remarkable degree of speculative interest, the maids got to work on me. I had never bathed before, totally immersed in water. I remembered Countess Joan, naked and arrogant, confident in her beauty, whereas I slid beneath the water to wallow up to my chin, like a trout in a summer pool, before my companions could actually look at me.

‘Go away,’ I remonstrated. ‘I’m perfectly capable of scrubbing my own skin.’

‘Queen’s orders!’ They simpered. ‘No one disobeys the Queen.’

There was no arguing against such a declaration so I set myself to make the best of it. The maids were audacious enough to point out my deficiencies. Too thin. No curves, small breasts, lean hips. They gave no quarter, making me horribly conscious of the inadequacies in my unclothed body, despite my sharp observation that life in a convent did not encourage solid flesh. Rough hands, they pointed out. Neglected hair. As for my eyebrows … The litany unrolled. ‘Fair is fashionable!’ they informed me.

I sighed. ‘Don’t rub so hard!’

They ignored me. I was soaped and rinsed, dried with soft linen, and in the end I simply closed my eyes and allowed them to talk and gossip and put me in the clothes provided for me. And such garments. The sensuous glide on my skin forced me to open my eyes. They were like nothing I had ever seen, except in the coffers of Countess Joan. An undershift of fine linen that did not catch when I moved. An overgown, close-fitting to my hips, in the blue of the Virgin’s cloak—a cotehardie, I was told, knowing no name for such fashionable niceties—with a sideless surcoat over all, sumptuous to my eyes with grey fur bands and an enamelled girdle. All made for someone else, of course, the fibres scuffed along hem and cuffs, but what did I care for that? They were a statement in feminine luxury I could never have dreamed of. And so shiny, so soft, fabrics that slid through my fingers. Silk and damask and fine wool. For the first time in my life I was clothed in a colour, glorious enough to assault my senses. I felt like a precious jewel, polished to a sparkle.

They exclaimed over my hair, of course.

‘Too coarse. Too dark. Too short to braid. Too short for anything.’

‘Better than when it was cropped for a novice nun,’ I fired back.

They pushed it into the gilded mesh of a crispinette, and covered the whole with a veil of some diaphanous material that floated quite beautifully and a plaited filet to hold it firm, as if to hide all evidence of my past life. But no wimple. I vowed never to wear a wimple again.

‘Put these on …’ I donned the fine stockings, the woven garters. Soft shoes were slid onto my feet.

And I took stock, hardly daring to breathe unless the whole ensemble fell off around my feet. The skirts were full and heavy against my legs, moving with a soft hush as I walked inexpertly across the room. The bodice was laced tight against my ribs, the neckline low across my unimpressive bosom. I did not feel like myself at all, but rather as if I were dressed for a mummer’s play I had once seen at Twelfth Night at the Abbey.

Did maidservants to the Queen really wear such splendour?

I was in the process of kicking the skirts behind me, experimentally, when the door opened to admit Isabella. The two maids curtseyed to the floor. I followed suit, with not a bad show of handling the damask folds, but not before I had seen the thin-lipped distaste. She walked round me, taking her time. Isabella, the agent of my kitchen humiliations.

‘Not bad,’ she commented, as I flushed. ‘Look for yourself.’ And she handed me the tiny looking glass that had been suspended from the chatelaine at her waist.

Oh, no! Remembering my last brush with vanity, I put my hands behind my back as if I were a child caught out in wrong doing. ‘No, I will not.’

Her smile was deeply sardonic. ‘Why not?’

‘I think I’ll not like what I see,’ I said, refusing to allow my gaze to fall before hers.

‘Well, that’s true enough. There’s only so much that can be done. Perhaps you’re wise,’ Isabella murmured, but the sympathy was tainted with scorn.

Peremptorily she gestured, and in a silence stretched taut I was led along the corridors to the solar where Philippa sat with her women.