Читать книгу The King's Concubine - Anne O'Brien - Страница 12

‘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.’

‘Nevertheless, it was well done.’ The Queen beckoned and I came to kneel before her. ‘A conversa, I see. Tell me your name.’

‘Alice.’

‘You have no desire to become a nun?’ Putting a hand beneath my chin, she lifted it and studied my face. ‘You have no calling?’

No one had ever asked me that before, or addressed me in so gentle a manner. There was a world of understanding in her eyes. Unexpectedly, unsettlingly, tears stung beneath my eyelids.

‘No, Majesty.’ Since she seemed interested, I told her. ‘Once I was a novice. And then a servant—who became a wife. Now I am a widow. And returned here as a lay sister.’

‘And is that your ambition? To remain here?’

Well, I would not lie. ‘No, Majesty. I will not stay longer than I must.’

‘So you have plans. How old are you?’

‘Almost seventeen years, I think. I am not a child, Majesty,’ I felt compelled to add.

‘You are to me!’ Her smile deepened momentarily. ‘Do you know how old I am?’

It seemed entirely presumptuous of me to even reply. ‘No, Majesty.’

‘Forty-eight years. I expect that seems ancient to you.’ It did. It seemed to me a vast age, and suffering had added a dozen more years to the Queen’s face. ‘I was younger than you when I came to England as a bride. Yet it seems no time to me. Life flies past.’

‘Take another drink, Maman.’ Isabella replaced the cup into the Queen’s hand, folding the swollen fingers gently around it. ‘I think you should rest.’

I expected to be dismissed, but the Queen was not to be bullied.

‘Soon, Isabella. Soon. But you, Alice. Have you no family?’

‘No, Majesty.’

‘And your father?’

‘I don’t know. A labourer in the town. A tiler, I think.’

‘I understand.’ And I felt that she did, despite the distance between us in years and rank. ‘How sad. You remind me of my own daughters. Margaret and Mary. Both dead of the plague September last.’

Isabella sighed heavily. ‘Maman …!’ How could I remind anyone of a Princess of the Blood?

‘You are of a similar age,’ she explained, as if I had spoken my doubt. ‘You are young to be a widow. Would you seek to wed again?’

‘Who would have me? I have no dowry,’ I stated with little attempt to hide my dissatisfaction. ‘All I can offer is …’ I closed my mouth.

‘What can you offer?’ the Queen asked as if she were genuinely interested.

I considered the sum of my talents. ‘I can read and write and figure, Majesty.’ Since someone actually showed an interest, there was no stopping me. ‘I can read French and Latin. I can keep accounts.’ Ingenuously, I was carried away with my achievements.

‘So much …’ I had made her smile again. ‘And how did you learn to keep accounts?’

‘Janyn Perrers. A moneylender. He taught me.’

‘And did you enjoy it? So tedious a task?’

‘Yes. I understood what I saw.’

‘You have a keen mind, Alice of the Accounts,’ was all she said. Perhaps I amused her. I wished I had not boasted of my hard-won skills. She took hold of one of my hands, to my embarrassment running her fingers over the evidence of hard digging in the heavy soil. My nails were cracked, the skin broken and the aroma of onions was keen, but she made no comment. ‘If you could choose your future path, Alice, what would it be?’

I replied without hesitation, thinking of Greseley, of the hopes that kept me from despair in the dark hours of the night. ‘I would have my own house. I would buy land and property. I would be dependent on no one.’

‘An unlikely ambition!’ Isabella’s remark interrupted, redolent of ridicule.

‘But a commendable one for all that.’ The Queen’s voice trembled. Isabella was instantly beside her. ‘Yes. I will rest now. Today is not a good day.’ She allowed her daughter to help her to her feet and moved slowly toward the bedchamber. Then she stopped and despite the discomfort looked back at me.

‘Alice, keep the rosary. It was a gift to me from the King when I gave birth to Edward, our first son.’ She must have read astonishment on my face. ‘It is not very valuable. He had little money to spend on fripperies in those days. I would like you to keep it as a memento of the day when you rescued the Queen from falling in public!’

The rosary. It was still gripped in one hand, the gold-enamelled beads of the Aves clutched so tight that they left impressions in my palm. The pearls that marked the Paternosters and Glorias were warm and so smooth. The Queen would give this to me? A gift from her husband? I coveted it—who would not? I wanted it for my own.

‘No …’ I said. I could not. I was not courteous, but I knew what would happen if I kept it. ‘We are not allowed possessions. We take a vow of poverty.’ I tried to explain my refusal, knowing how crude it must seem.

‘Not even a gift from a grateful Queen?’

‘It would not be thought suitable.’

‘And you would not be allowed to keep it?’

‘No, Majesty.’

‘No. I was thoughtless to offer it.’ The tormenting pain gripped her again and I was forgotten. ‘By the Virgin, I am tried beyond endurance today—take me to my bed, Isabella.’

Isabella manoeuvred the Queen through the doorway into the bedchamber, and I was left alone. Before I could change my mind I placed the rosary on the prie dieu and backed out of the room until I was standing outside the door. Quietly I closed it, leaning against it. I had refused a gift from a Queen. But what would be the good in my accepting what I would not be allowed to keep? The rosary, if I had it, would fall into the hands of Mother Abbess. I could see it in my mind’s eye attached to her silver-decorated girdle. As I could imagine my mantle gracing the shoulders of Signora Damiata.

If ever I accepted anything of value in my life, I must be certain it remained mine.

Queen Philippa and her sharp-tongued daughter did not stay beyond the night. As soon as the service of Prime was sung next morning, they made ready to depart, the Queen helped into her well-cushioned travelling litter by Sister Margery, who had made up a draught of tender ash leaves distilled in wine against the agony of a bone-shaking journey. I knew what was in it. Had I not helped to make the infusion?

‘Her Majesty suffers from dropsy,’ Sister Margery had pronounced with certainty. ‘I have seen it before. It is a terrible affliction. She will feel the effect of every rut and stumble.’

Sister Margery instructed Lady Isabella: too much would cripple the digestion; too little and the pain would remain intense. And here was a little pot of mutton fat pounded with vervain root. Smoothed on the swollen flesh of hands and feet, it would bring relief. I had done the work but it was not I who held the flask and offered the little pot. It was not I who received the Queen’s thanks. I was not even there. I heard the departure from the cellar where I was engaged in counting hams and barrels of ale.

Take me with you. Let me serve you.

A silent plea that she did not hear.

Why would she remember me? It was an occasion of moment in my life, it had no bearing on what a Queen might remember. She would have forgotten about me within the quarter-hour of my returning the rosary. But I did not forget Queen Philippa. She had the loving kindness in her homely face of the mother that I had never known.

I wondered what Greseley was doing, and if I would ever see him again. If he was taking care of the houses in Gracechurch Street and the little manor in West Peckham. Surely he could raise enough money from them for my own needs.

I prayed even more fervently over the hams than I had over the cabbages that it would be soon before my hopes died.

The hams and the cabbages were eaten, one with more relish than the other, the ale drunk and replaced by an inferior brew that brought down the ire of Mother Sybil on the brewer. Such tedious, unimportant events that barely ruffled my existence as high summer came and went, the early blossom on the gnarled trees in the orchard long gone. My patience ebbed and flowed, reaching painful depths in the nights when the silence closed around me like a shroud.

And then! Mother Abbess was in conversation with a tall, well-dressed man, perhaps a courier, to judge from his riding gear of fine wool and leather, accompanied by an elderly thick-set groom who held the reins of a fine gelding, and a small but well-armed escort, sword and bow very evident.

I took it all in at a glance. Barely had I considered why I had been summoned when the courier turned a penetrating stare toward me.

‘You are Alice?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Conscious of my dishevelled state and the mud on my shoes—I had been kneeling beneath the low branches in the orchard to collect the fallen plums and damsons when I had been fetched—I made a desultory attempt to beat soil and grass from my skirts. The shoes were beyond remedy.

‘You are to go with me, mistress.’ He looked me up and down and from the narrowing of his eyes found me wanting. ‘You will need a cloak.’ And to the Abbess, ‘Provide one for her, if you please.’

I looked to Abbess Sybil for instruction. Mother Abbess lifted a shoulder as if denying any complicity in what had been arranged. Had my labours been bought again? Holy Virgin! Not another marriage. The man continued to address me, impervious and uninformative.

‘Can you ride, mistress?’

‘No, sir.’

He motioned to the groom. ‘She’ll ride pillion behind you, Rob. She’s no weight to speak of.’

Within minutes I was bundled into a coarsely woven cloak and hoisted onto the broad rump of the groom’s mare, as if I were a cord of firewood.

‘Hold tight, mistress,’ growled the man called Rob.

I clutched the sides of his leather jerkin as the animal stamped and sidled. The ground seemed far away and my balance was awry. At a signal from the man who had so smoothly rearranged my future, the escort fell in and we rode through the streets of the town and into the open country without a further word.

‘Sir?’ I addressed the back of the courier, who was now riding a little way ahead of me. No reply, so I raised my voice. ‘Sir? Where are we going?’

He did not turn his head. He might have addressed me as mistress, but it seemed I was not worthy of any further respect. ‘To Havering-atte-Bower.’

It meant nothing to me. ‘Why?’

‘The Queen has sent for you.’

I could not believe it. What had caused her to remember me, when I had done nothing but pick up her rosary? Nevertheless, the thrill of unknown adventure placed a cold hand on my nape and I shuddered. ‘Is Havering-atte-Bower, then, a royal palace?’ I asked.

The man slowed his horse and gestured the groom to pull alongside. On a level, he reined in his mount, allowing me to read his unspoken thoughts as clear as figures in a ledger. My kirtle and overgown bore the sticky remnants of the fallen fruit in St Mary’s orchard, my hair was bound up in a length of coarse cloth, the borrowed cloak was far beyond respectability. Kicking his mount into a walk, we plodded on side by side as he considered what he thought of me, and what he would deign to tell me.

‘Why would the Queen send for me?’ I asked.

‘I have no idea. Her Majesty will doubtless tell you.’

He shortened his reins as if to push on with more speed, our conversation finished. But I wanted more.

‘Who are you, sir?’

He gave no reply, through choice, I decided, rather than because he had not heard me, so I took the time to appraise him. Nothing out of the way. He was neither young nor old, with regular features, a little stern, a little austere. He was certainly used to command but I thought he was not a soldier. Neither was he the courier I had first thought him. He had too much authority for that. His eyes were a mix of green and brown, sharp and bright, like those of a squirrel. I thought him rather pompous for a man who could not be considered old. So we would ride to Havering-atte-Bower in total silence, would we? I thought not. I held tight to Rob’s tunic and leaned toward my reluctant companion.

‘I have much to learn, sir,’ I began. ‘How far to Havering-atte-Bower?’

‘About two hours. Three if you don’t get a move on.’

I ignored the jibe. ‘Time enough, then. You could help me. You could tell me some of the things I don’t know.’

‘Such as?’

‘You could tell me how to behave when we arrive,’ I suggested solemnly, at the same time widening my eyes in innocent enquiry. And I saw him waver. ‘And how do I address you, sir?’

‘I am William de Wykeham. And you, I suspect, are no wiser.’

I smiled deliberately. Winsomely, all demure insouciance, except for the tilt of my chin. How best to seduce information from a man than get him to talk of what was important to him? I had learnt that from both Janyn and Greseley. Talk about money and rates of interest and they would eat out of your hand. ‘I am no wiser yet,’ I replied. ‘But I will be if you will be my informant. What do I call you? What do you do?’

‘Wykeham will do. I serve His Majesty. And occasionally Her Majesty, Queen Philippa.’ And I saw the pride in him. ‘I am destined for the church—and to build palaces.’

‘Oh.’ It seemed a laudable occupation. ‘Have you built many?’

And that was it. The door opened wide. For the rest of the journey Wykeham recounted to me his ambitions and achievements. Turrets and arches, buttresses and pillars. Curtain walls and superior heating methods. Holy Virgin! He was as dull as a meatless meal in Lent, as incapable of luring a nun from her vows as Janyn Perrers or Greseley. Perhaps all men in essence were as dry as dust. When I wanted to hear the minutiae of life in a royal palace, the food, the fashions, the important personages, all I got was a description of the new tower at Windsor, but I made no effort to deter him. Were all men so easy to encourage into conversation? Far easier than women, I thought. A smile, a question, an appeal to their achievements, their pride. I learnt very little about life at Havering during the journey, but a great deal about castle building. And then we were approaching an impressive array of towers, half-hidden in the trees.

‘Your journey is at an end, Mistress Alice. And I forgot …’ Transferring his reins into one hand, he fished in his saddlebag. ‘Her Majesty sent you this. She thought you might like it—to give you God’s comfort on the journey.’ He dropped the rosary into my hand. ‘Not that I think you need it. You can talk more than any woman I know.’

I was instantly torn between amazement at the gift of the rosary and the unfairness of the accusation: the unfairness won. ‘You’ve done more talking than I have!’

‘Nonsense.’

‘Stop fussing, woman!’ Rob gave a rough growl. ‘You’re as fret as a flea on a warm dog.’

I laughed. ‘I ache!’

‘Your arse’ll recover soon enough. My sides are stripped raw with your clutchings!’

Even Wykeham laughed. The warmth of it—friendly and uncritical—helped to ease my growing apprehension of what awaited me.

‘Why would she send me something so precious?’ I held the rosary up so that the sun caught the beads, turning them into a rainbow of iridescence.

My companion surveyed me from my cloth-bound hair to my mud-smeared hem as if it was far beyond his comprehension. ‘I really have no idea.’

Neither had I.