The King's Mistress (54 page)

A
S EDWARD’S
health continued to deteriorate through the winter, it was increasingly difficult to conceal his spells of illness. A moment I had long dreaded occurred during a feast at Windsor. Edward was seated on the dais in full view when he suddenly slumped in his chair. Princess Joan and I quickly shielded him, pretending to be
discussing something about the jewels in his crown. Just as suddenly he opened his eyes, straightened, and commanded us to stop fussing over him. More often he would briefly lose the use of an arm or leg. I grew adept at staying close to him and masking how much I was aiding him in sitting up straight or holding his arm naturally.

I resented the ease with which Joan and the prince would withdraw to their palace in Kennington for a rest, John would disappear to his mistress Katherine or his wife Constance, and I would be left in charge of Edward, night and day. Of course he was surrounded by his household administrators, knights, and servants, but they all looked to me for direction when the king confused them.

When Dame Agnes was on her deathbed, I left John Neville in charge of the king, with two of Edward’s physicians seeing to matters of a more personal nature, and worried about him constantly during the weeks I sat with my dear grandmother. In faith, while I watched at her bedside, I imagined sitting so at Edward’s deathbed. At thirty years of age, all my thoughts had turned toward the deaths of my elders.

On the rare occasions that I was freed from my duties at court, I would gather my daughters from the home of my sister Mary, send for Robert if he were not too far afield, and we would enjoy a respite in London or at Fair Meadow. I rode as much as possible and sought the comfort of hawking in season. When I freed my hawks from their jesses, I would tell them to soar and imagine taking their place, flying free, enjoying the exuberant rush up, up into the air before returning to my master’s glove. But these interludes were brief and seldom.

My time with Edward was now bittersweet, his physical and mental decline reminding me that my days with him were numbered. My heart ached when I thought back on my life with him. In losing Edward, I would lose not only a lover and a lord but a confidant, a keeper of my secrets. I expected nothing from Edward’s family once he was gone, except the status he had sworn to give our son John—knighthood in the year of Edward’s jubilee, the great celebration of his fifty years of rule in four years’ time. He had obtained promises from both Prince Edward and Duke John that they would carry out the knighting if he were to die before that date. As for our daughters, Edward felt certain that the estate I had acquired would provide excellent dowries for Joan and Jane, sufficient for them to wed minor knights or wealthy merchants.

“Why do you love our daughters less than John?” I asked him.

“How can you so accuse me, Alice? I greet them with as much
affection as I do John. And I believe I have given them far more gifts than I’ve given him.”

“But he will be a knight, respected and honored as your son. They will enjoy no such status. Could you not recognize them as yours, Edward? Give them the benefit of noble standing?”

“Were you happy as the wife of Janyn Perrers?”

“You know that I was.”

“Why should they not be happy in similar marriages?”

“Because they know they are daughters of the king. Your blood runs in their veins, Edward. They will have your pride.”

On this matter he would not bend. And, God help me, I could not forgive his slight to his daughters.

And yet I loved him still, though it was not as before. I felt a tenderness for him, an affection, as I imagine one does in the latter years of a long marriage. His white hair was thinning, his flesh hung slack on his still-straight but often aching frame. His joints swelled with long sitting. He drooled in his sleep. Yet when he rose and was dressed in his kingly robes, he was still an impressive figure of a man, and most days his mind was clear and cunning, his wisdom deep, his love for me constant.

I
N THE
forty-sixth year of Edward’s reign, when Philippa was almost four years dead, my love presented me with diamonds, rubies, and emeralds that had belonged to her. Some were in settings I well remembered—a circlet with fleur-de-lis set with diamonds and rubies, a gold ring in which was set a large emerald flanked by insets of lapis lazuli, a girdle of interlocking gold and silver sprinkled with diamonds, to name my favorites. Others were loose stones to add to all the pearls he had given me—and still did. I remembered Geoffrey’s warning about the gossip surrounding my wearing the less identifiable jewels at a Christmas court. How I could wear these there I did not know. Edward was oblivious to the danger of such gifts. It was madness.

O
NE OCTOBER
morning at Havering, as I returned from a solitary ride, I encountered William Wyndsor in the hall, his shoulders hunched defiantly, his visage turned in on itself in anger. He was coming from the direction of Edward’s chambers. Such was his self-absorption he did not notice me until I stepped in front of him and said his name, loud and sharp. Only then did he pause and look up.

Though I would have preferred to have avoided him, I could not, and therefore I put on my cordial court façade. “William, what is amiss?”

He growled, shook his head, and pushed past me, but had taken only a few steps when he turned back. “You’ve done enough. Leave me be!” he said in the impatient tone he used with misbehaving dogs—and he was not fond of dogs.

Having been blamed for what I did not know, I followed him. Once out in the yard I grabbed his shoulder and demanded, “If I’m to be blamed, have the courtesy to tell me what I’ve done.”

“His Grace has dropped the charges against me and is sending me back to Ireland.”

I almost laughed at his snarling delivery of such good news. “I should think that is what you wanted.”

“I return as King’s Lieutenant, not Governor.”

I looked into his beautiful eyes and saw there a spoiled, greedy boy. “Titles mean little, William. You have been cleared of charges and shall resume your post. You should be celebrating, not berating me.”

With a look that chilled me, he removed my hand from his shoulder and walked away. I cannot say I was disappointed to see him go, but I was puzzled. And I felt subtly threatened, though I could think of no cause for this. I realized he had not explained what he thought I had to do with such news.

That evening Edward told me of his decision about William. He had been in a charming, amorous mood all afternoon. We had taken a long walk in the gardens, lingered over a delicious meal, rested together—he insisted that I join him—and since waking had sipped watered wine and reminisced about our years together. As he told me about William he seemed oddly gleeful, as if he were congratulating himself for besting someone. William, I supposed. Though I did not like to discuss him with Edward, I could not help myself.

“Forgive me, my love, but I do not understand your mood,” I said. “You are happy you did not need to punish one of your trusted administrators, yet seem to feel you tricked him.”

Edward laughed, a deep, satisfied laugh. “He claims you are his betrothed—that you’ve been betrothed for years. I wished him all happiness after I’m dead. For now, you are mine, and he shall remain far from you.”

I thought I might choke, it was suddenly so difficult to breathe. I felt more than betrayed by William, I felt defiled.

Still smiling, Edward reached for my hands, looking me in the eyes. “Alice, I love you too much to share you with another man.” He kissed both my hands. When he looked up once more he had ceased smiling. “I am protecting you from a man who does not deserve you. He is cunning and greedy, and angry with the world for its imagined slights.”

“Edward, my love.” I had found my breath. “I agree with all you say about him. I saw through his shallow charm long ago, and I never swore to wed him. I sent him away. I love you. Only you.”

“I do not blame you for seeking pleasure with a younger man.” He held up a hand to stop me from protesting. “I have known that you have been with another when you are away from me.”

I cringed under this blow. He had said on several occasions that his indifference toward the future of our daughters was inspired by doubt that they were indeed his children. I had sworn every oath I could think of that his doubts were utterly unfounded, that it was impossible that they were not his. Indeed, Joan, with her flaxen hair and blue eyes, looked so like Edward that he often swore it must only be Jane about whom he was unsure. Jane favored me, her bone structure softer than his, her hair a little darker, her eyes gray green. These doubts assailed him only on the days when he woke confused. On his more coherent days he sometimes declared he would acknowledge Joan and Jane.

“Wyndsor is my son John’s creature, Alice.” He chuckled and kissed my hands once more. “I have urged him to marry Wyndsor off to a dark beauty from Constance’s household and send him to Castile in some dangerous post, but he makes excuses, pretends to have forgotten. Beware, my love.”

Of all the accusations and slights I had endured, this was the most bitter. I had been impeccably faithful to Edward and he did not believe it.

“Why would I have told you how he pestered me had I anything to hide? I have lain with no man but you since Janyn. Did he say we had lain together?”

“He did not need to.”

I was furious to find myself both insulted and unheard by this man who had won my heart by making me feel both seen and heard.

• • •

I
N SPRING
of the forty-seventh year of Edward’s reign he named a ship after me,
La Alice
. It was beautiful, and I was touched by the joy it gave him to blindfold me and lead me along the dock. He had greeted me that morning with an air of happy anticipation, and the wondrous vessel before me certainly exceeded all my expectations. But it was far too public an honor, the sort of extravagant gesture that could only do me harm.

When I next saw the Duke of Lancaster, he said, “Give thanks for your moments with my father, Alice, but remember that he is old, he is failing, and when he is gone you shall need another protector, whether a ship rides at anchor on the Thames bearing your name or no.”

“I live with a keen awareness of the precipice just beyond my sight, my lord. I am most grateful to have your friendship.” I believed it imperative to pretend I still considered him my friend, concealing the fact that I had become ever more wary of him.

The duke looked pleased. “I am glad of that.”

This encounter chilled me. Why he had felt the need to warn me, I did not know. There were few at court I felt I could always count on. Indeed, at that moment I could think of but one, Princess Joan. I still had Wykeham’s friendship, but his influence was now limited. Despite Edward’s advice I had failed to make any deep friendships at court; those I had were all shallow, based on business, not trust.

Lancaster’s words echoing in my head, I walked the palace corridors with eyes cast down, avoiding the cool looks, the knowing grins.

I
N SPRING
of the following year, Edward planned what would prove to be his last great tournament, an event that was to bring home to me how justified was my deepening sense of dread. To be staged at Smithfield in early May, the event would extend over seven days, with jousting, tourneying, and feasting in celebration of the glory of Edward’s realm and reign. True to his lifelong delight in devising elaborate themes for such festivities, Edward chose to be the Sun King, and I, his lady of the lists, was to appear as the Lady of the Sun. All such tournaments began with processions through the city, and I was accustomed to playing some role in these, but this time he meant for me to lead the ladies of the court, riding in a golden chariot. I imagined Lancaster, indeed all of the courtiers, watching me with scorn.

“As my Lady of the Sun you shall be as regal and fiercely beautiful as that magnificent bird, Alice.” Edward sat with head flung back, watching a falcon in flight.

“Edward, no, it is impossible that I should play such a role. Let Princess Joan be your lady in this.”

I had drawn him out to watch the falconer training new hawks, hoping to distract him as I argued against his scheme. We sat on a bench beneath a pretty arbor, the sun warming us.

“You are my queen in spirit if not in title, Alice, and I will have it so.” His voice was low, his tone conversational, his eyes fixed on the birds.

“No, Edward, I am not your queen, but a merchant’s daughter raised to know my place.”

He reached for my hand and squeezed it. “Your place is beside me, my love.”

I did not need more enemies. I slipped my hand from his grasp and knelt before him. “Edward, look at me for a moment.”

He squinted down at me, his once wondrously blue eyes clouded now with age. “You are so beautiful.…”

“Edward, I pray you, listen to me. You must understand that you endanger me by insisting on my being the Lady of the Sun.”

“You shall not deny me this pleasure, Alice.” He was no longer smiling.

“Princess Joan—”

“No. My son is too ill to take part. His wife would not wish to call attention to his absence by appearing on my arm.” The peacock feathers in Edward’s hat shivered as his head began to shake, his temper rising. “You must trust me. You must be there.”

His health was too fragile to risk an angry outburst. I retreated at once. “My love, my love, please be calm. We shall discuss this later.” I rose to sit beside him once more, kissing his hand, his cheek.

Each time I tried to dissuade him, he frightened me with his temper. In the end, I accepted defeat and buried my fears, doing all that I could to ensure that the tournament would be a success.

It was at such times that I most missed Queen Philippa—her enthusiastic encouragement of us throughout the weeks of work, her almost childlike delight in our progress and astonishment at the results. She had lifted our hearts and rendered it all innocent fun. I still took immense pleasure in the sumptuous cloth, the feathers, buttons, and
jewels gathered for the costumes, the silver-and-gold wire, the cloth of gold and silver, but I had no one with whom to share my delight. Princess Joan and Edward’s daughter Isabella were vaguely interested, but the sempsters and servants working with me were for the most part quietly intent on their assignments, and I did not have the queen’s talent for lightening their spirits.