Читать книгу The King's Concubine - Anne O'Brien - Страница 13

Havering-atte-Bower

I KNEW nothing of royal palaces in those days when I arrived in Wykeham’s dusty wake. Neither was the grandeur of the place my first priority. Every one of my muscles groaned at its ill usage. We could not come to a halt fast enough for me; all I wanted was to slide down from that lumbering creature and set my feet on solid ground. But once in the courtyard at Havering I simply sat and stared.

‘Are you going to dismount today, mistress?’ Wykeham asked brusquely. He was already dismounted and halfway up the steps to the huge iron-studded door.

‘I’ve never seen …’ He wasn’t listening so I closed my mouth.

I have never seen anything so magnificent.

And yet it was strangely welcoming, with a seductive charm that St Mary’s with its grey stone austerity lacked. It seemed vast to me yet I was to learn that for a royal palace it was small and intimate. The stonework of the building glowed in the afternoon sunshine, a haphazard arrangement of rooms and apartments, the arches of a chapel to the right, the bulk of the original Great Hall to my left, then further outbuildings, sprawling outwards from the courtyard. Roofs and walls jutted at strange angles as the whim had taken the builders over the years. And if that was not enough, the whole palace was hemmed about by pasture and lightly wooded stretches, like a length of green velvet wrapped round a precious jewel.

It filled me with awe.

‘It’s beautiful!’

My voice must have carried. ‘It’ll do, for now,’ Wykeham growled. ‘The King’s grandfather built it—the first Edward. The Queen likes it—that’s the main thing—it’s her manor. It will be better when I’ve had my hands on it. I’ve a mind to put in new kitchens now that the King has his household here too.’ He fisted his hands on his hips. ‘For God’s sake, woman. Get off that animal.’

I slid down from the rump, staggering when my feet hit the ground, grateful when Wykeham strode forward to grip my arm.

‘Thank you, sir.’ I held on tight for a moment as my muscles quivered in protest.

‘I am at your disposal,’ he replied wryly. ‘Tell me when you can stand without falling over.’

Wykeham led the way up the shallow flight of steps, pushing open the door and stepping into the Great Hall. It was an echoing space, tables and trestles cleared away for the day except for the solid board on the dais at the far end. Cool after the heat of the sun, it was pleasant just to be there, the rafters above my head merging into deep shadows striped with soft bars of sunlight. Like the coat of a tabby cat. Servants moved quietly, replacing the wall sconces. A burst of laughter came from behind the screens at the far end that closed off the entrance to the kitchens. The tapestries on the walls glowed with rich colour, mirrored in the tiling beneath my feet.

I looked round in stark admiration. Was this where the Countess of Kent lived, that arrogant being who had left such an indelible impression on my younger self? I glanced at the shadows as if I might see her, watching me, judging me, before I chided myself for my foolishness. If the Countess had fulfilled her ambitions, she would be seated in the opulent splendour of the Queen’s private apartments, sipping wine, while a servant brushed her magnificent hair. If the serving woman’s comb happened to catch and drag on a tangle, the Countess would slap her without compunction.

A movement caught my interest. A maidservant crossed the room, busy with a tray of cups and a flagon, with a brief curtsey in Wykeham’s direction. My eye followed her. Was this, then, to be my destiny? To work in the kitchens of the royal palace? But why? Did the Queen not have enough servants? If she needed more, would her steward not find enough willing girls from the neighbouring villages? I could not see why she would bring me all the way from the Abbey to be a serving wench. Perhaps she needed a tirewoman, one who could read and write, but I hardly had the breeding for it. So why, in the name of the Blessed Virgin, was I here? The Queen would hardly stand in need of my meagre talents.

‘This way.’ Wykeham was striding ahead.

Behind us in the doorway a commotion erupted. Wykeham and I, and everyone in the Hall, turned to look. A man had entered to stand under the door arch. He was silhouetted by the low rays of the afternoon sun so that it was impossible to see his features, only his stature and bearing. Tall, with the build of a soldier, a man of action. Around his feet pushed and jostled a parcel of hounds and alaunts. On his gauntleted wrist rode a hooded goshawk. As the hawk shook its pinions, the man moved forward a step, into a direct sunbeam, so that he gleamed with a corona of light around head and shoulders, like one of the saints in the glazed windows of the Abbey. Crowned with gold.

Then, with another step, the moment passed. He was enclosed in soft shadow, an ordinary man again. And I was distracted when the hounds bounded forward, circling the Hall, sniffing at my skirts. Having no knowledge of such boisterous animals, I stepped back, wary of slavering mouths and formidable bodies. Wykeham bowed whilst I was engaged in pushing aside an inquisitive alaunt.

Wykeham cleared his throat.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

In reply Wykeham took hold of the ancient cloak that still enveloped me from chin to toe and twitched it off, letting it fall to the floor. I stiffened at this presumptuous action, took breath to remonstrate, when a voice, a strikingly beautiful voice, cut across the width of the Hall.

‘Wykeham, by God! Where’ve you been? Why are you always impossible to find, man?’

It was a clear-timbred voice, filling the space from walls to rafters. And striding toward us was the owner. The man with the raptor.

Wykeham bowed again, with what could have been construed as a scowl in my direction, so I curtseyed. The newcomer looked to me like a huntsman strayed into the Hall after a day’s exercise, looking to find a cup of ale or a heel of bread as he covered the ground with long loping strides, as lithe as the hound at his side.

And then he was standing within a few feet of me.

‘Sire!’ Wykeham bowed once more.

The King!

I sank to the floor, holding my skirts, my flushed face hidden. How naive I was. But how was I to know? He did not dress like a king. Then I looked up and saw him not a score of feet distant, and knew that he did not need clothing and jewels to proclaim his superiority. What a miraculous, god-like figure he was. A man of some age and experience, but he wore the years lightly. Handsome without doubt with a broad brow and a fine blade of a nose complemented by luxurious flaxen hair that shone as bright as silver. Here was no dry-as-dust dullard. The King shone like a diamond amongst worthless dross.

‘It’s the water supply!’ the King announced.

‘Yes, Sire. I have it in hand,’ Wykeham replied calmly.

‘The Queen needs heated water.’

The King’s complexion might once have been fair but his skin was tanned and seamed from an outdoor life in sun and cold. What a remarkable face he was blessed with, with blue eyes as keen as those of the raptor on his fist, whose hood he was in the process of removing. And what fluidity and grace there was about his movements as he unclipped his cloak, one-handed, swung it from his shoulder and threw it to a page who had followed him across the Hall. How had I not known that this was King Edward? At his belt was a knife in a jewelled scabbard, in his hat a ruby brooch pinning a peacock feather into jaunty place. Even without the glitter of gems, I should have known. He had a presence, the habit of command, of demanding unquestioning obedience.

So this was Queen Philippa’s magnificent husband. I was dazzled.

I stood, my heart beating fast, aware of nothing but my own unfortunate apparel, the heap of the disreputable mantle at my feet. But the King was not looking at me. Was I not more poorly clad than any of the servants I had seen in the palace? He would think—if he thought at all—that I was a beggar come to receive alms from the palace kitchens. Even the raptor eyed me as if I might be vermin and worth the eating.

The King swept his arm out in a grand gesture. ‘Out! All of you!’ The dogs obediently vanished through the door in a rush of excitement. ‘Will—I’ve been looking at the site for the bath house you proposed.’ He was close enough to clip Wykeham in an affectionate manner on his shoulder. ‘Where’ve you been?’

I might as well not have been there.

‘I’ve been to St Mary’s at Barking, Sire.’ Wykeham smiled.

‘Barking? Why in God’s name?’

‘Business for the Queen, Sire. A new chantry for the two dead Princesses.’

The King nodded. ‘Yes, yes. I’d forgotten. It gives her comfort and—before God!—precious little does.’ And at last he cast a cursory eye over me. ‘WhO’s this? Someone I employ?’ Removing the beaver hat with its brooch and feather, he inclined his head with grave courtesy, even though he thought I was a serving wench. His gaze travelled over my face in a cursory manner. I made another belated curtsey. The King tilted his chin at Wykeham, having made some judgement on me. ‘St Mary’s, you said. Have you helped one of the sisters to escape, Will?’

Wykeham smiled dryly. ‘The Queen sent for her.’

Those sharp blue eyes returned. ‘One of her waifs and strays perhaps. To be rescued for her own good. What’s your name, girl?’

‘Alice, Sire.’

‘Glad to escape?’

‘Yes, Sire.’ It was heartfelt, and must have sounded it.

And Edward laughed, a sound of great joy that made me smile too. ‘So would I be. Serving God’s all very well, but not every hour of every day. Do you have talents?’ He frowned at me as if he could not imagine it. ‘Play a lute?’ I shook my head. ‘Sing? My wife likes music.’

‘No, Sire.’

‘Well, I suppose she has her reasons.’ He was already losing interest, turning away. ‘And if it makes her happy … Come here!’

I started, thinking that he meant me, but he clicked his fingers at a rangy alaunt that had slunk back into the Hall and was following some scent along the edge of a tapestry. It obeyed to fawn and rub against him as he twisted his fingers into its collar. ‘Tell Her Majesty, Will—No, on second thoughts, you come with me. You’ve completed your task for the Queen. I’ve demands on your time for my new bath house.’ He raised his voice. ‘Joscelyn! Joscelyn!’

A man approached from where he had been waiting discreetly beside the screen.

‘Yes, Sire.’

‘Take this girl to the Queen. She has sent for her. Now, Will …’ They were already knee-deep in planning. ‘I think there’s the perfect site. Let me get rid of these dogs and birds …’ Whistling softly to the raptor on his wrist, the King headed to the door. Wykeham followed. They left me without a second look. Why would they not?

Sir Joscelyn, who I was to learn was the royal steward, beckoned me to follow him but I hesitated and looked back over my shoulder. Wykeham was nodding, my last view of him gesturing with his hands as if describing the size and extent of the building he envisaged. They laughed together, the King’s strong voice overlaying Wykeham’s softer responses. And then he was gone with the King, as if my last friend on earth had deserted me. My only friend. And, of course, he wasn’t, but who else did I know here? I would not forget his brusque kindness. As for the King, I had expected a crown or at least a chain of office. Not a pack of dogs and a hawk. But there was no denying the sovereignty that sat as lightly on his shoulders as a summer mantle.

‘Come on, girl. I haven’t got all day.’

I sighed and followed the steward to discover what would become of me as one of the Queen’s habitual waifs and strays. I stuffed the rosary that I still clutched into the bosom of my overgown and followed as I had been bidden.

The Queen’s apartments were silent. Finding no one in any of the antechambers to whom he could hand me over, Sir Joscelyn rapped on a door, was bidden to enter and did so, drawing me with him. I found myself on the threshold of a large sun-filled room so full of colour and activity and soft chatter, of feminine glamour, that it filled my whole vision, more than even the grandeur of the Great Hall. Here was every hue and tint I could imagine, creating butterflies of the women who inhabited the room. Ill-mannered certainly, but I stared at so beguiling a scene. There they were, chattering as they stitched, books and games to hand for those who wished, not an enshrouding wimple or brow-hugging veil amongst them. A whole world of which I had no knowledge to enchant ear and eye. The ladies talked and laughed; someone was singing to the clear notes of a lute. There was no silence here.

I could not see the Queen in their midst. Neither, to my relief, could I see the Countess of Kent.

The steward cast an eye and discovered the face he sought.

‘My lady.’ His bow was perfection. Learning fast, I curtseyed. ‘I would speak with Her Majesty.’

Princess Isabella looked up from the lute she was playing but her fingers continued to strum idly over the strings. Now I knew the source of her beautiful fairness: she was her father’s daughter in height and colouring.

‘Her Majesty is indisposed, Joscelyn. Can it wait?’

‘I was commanded to bring this person to Her Majesty.’ He nudged me forward with haughty condescension. I curtseyed again.

‘Why?’ Her gaze remained on the lute strings. She was not the King’s daughter in kindness.

‘Wykeham brought her, my lady.’

The Princess’s eye lifted to take in my person. ‘Who are you?’

‘Alice, my lady.’ There was no welcome here. Not even a memory of who I was. ‘From St Mary’s Abbey at Barking, my lady.’

A line dug between Isabella’s brows, then smoothed. ‘I remember. The girl with the rosary—the one who worked in the kitchens or some such.’

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘Her Majesty sent for you?’ Her fingers strummed over the lute strings again and her foot tapped impatiently. ‘I suppose I must do something with you.’ The glint in her eye, I decided, was not friendly.

One of the ladies approached to put her hand on the Princess’s shoulder with the confidence of long acquaintance. ‘Play for us, Isabella. We have a new song.’

‘With pleasure. Take the girl to the kitchens, Joscelyn. Give her a bed and some food. Then put her to work. I expect that’s what Her Majesty intended.’

‘Yes, my lady.’

Isabella had already given her attention to the ladies and their new song. The steward bowed himself out, pushing me before him, the door closing on that magical scene. I had not managed to step beyond the threshold, and I was shaken by a desire to do so, to be part of the life that went on behind that closed door.

Sir Joscelyn strode off without a word, expecting me to follow, as I did. I should be grateful that I was being given food and a place to sleep. Would life as a kitchen wench at Havering-atte-Bower be better or worse than as a conversa in the Abbey at Barking? Would it be better than life as a drudge in the Perrers household?’ I was about to find out, thanks to the effortless malice of Princess Isabella, for I knew, beyond doubt, that the Queen had not brought me all the way from Barking to pluck chickens in her kitchens. It was all Isabella’s fault. I knew an enemy when I saw one.

‘This girl, Master Humphrey …’ The steward’s expression spoke his contempt. ‘Another of Her Majesty’s gutter sweepings to live off our charity.’

A grunt was all the reply he got. Master Humphrey was wielding a cleaver on the carcass of a pig, splitting it down the backbone with much-practised skill.

‘The Lady said to bring her to you.’

The cook stopped, in mid-chop, and looked up under grizzled brows. ‘And what, may I ask, do I do with her?’

‘Feed her. Give her a bed. Clothe her and put her to work.’

‘Ha! Look around you, Jos! What do you see?’

I looked also. The kitchen was awash with activity: on all sides scullions, spit boys, pot boys, bottle washers applied themselves with a racket as if all hell had broken loose. The heat was overpowering from the ovens and open fires. I could already feel sweat beginning to trickle down my spine and dampen my hair beneath my hood.

‘What?’ Sir Joscelyn growled. I thought he did not approve of the liberty taken with his name.

‘I don’t employ girls, Jos. They’re not strong enough. Good enough for the dairy and serving the dishes—but not here.’ The cook emphasised the final word with a downward sweep of his axe.

‘Well, you do now. Princess Isabella’s orders. Kitchens, she said.’

Another grunt. ‘And what the Lady wants …!’

‘Exactly.’

Sir Joscelyn duly abandoned me in the midst of the teaming life of Havering’s kitchens. I recognised the activities—the cleaning, the scouring, the chopping and stirring—but my experience was a pale shadow to them. The noise was ear-shattering. Exhilarating. Shouts and laughter, hoots of ridicule, bellowed orders, followed inevitably by oaths and complaints. There seemed to be little respect from the kitchen lads, but the cook’s orders were carried out with a promptness that suggested a heavy hand if they transgressed them. And the food. My belly rumbled at the sight of it. As for the scents of roasting meat, of succulent joints …

‘Don’t stand there like a bolt of cloth.’

The cook, throwing down his axe with a clatter, gave me no more than a passing look, but the scullions did, with insolent grins and earthy gestures. I might not have much experience of such signs with tongues and fingers—except occasionally in the market between a whore and a dissatisfied customer—but it did not take much imagination. They made my cheeks glow with a heat that was not from the fire.

‘Sit there.’ Master Humphrey pressed down on my shoulder with a giant hand, and so I did at the centre board, sharing it with the pig. A bowl of thick stew was dumped unceremoniously in front of me, a spoon pushed into my hand and a piece of stale wastel bread thrown down on the table within reach.

‘Eat, then—and fast. There’s work to be done.’

I ate, without stopping. I drank a cup of ale handed to me. I had not realised how hungry I was.

‘Put this on.’

A large apron of stained linen was held out by Master Humphrey as he carried a tray of round loaves to thrust into one of the two ovens. It was intended for someone much larger, and I hitched it round my waist or I would have tripped on it. I was knotting the strings, cursing Isabella silently under my breath, when the cook returned.

‘Now! Let me look at you!’ I stood before him. ‘What did you say your name was?’

‘Alice.’

‘Well, then, Alice, no need to keep your eyes on your feet here or you’ll fall on your arse.’ His expression was jaundiced. ‘You’re not very big.’

‘She’s big enough for what I’ve in mind!’ shouted one of the scullions, a large lad with tow hair. A guffaw of crude laughter.

‘Shut it, Sim. And keep your hands to yourself or …’ Master Humphrey seized and wielded his meat cleaver with quick chopping movements. ‘Pay them no heed.’ He took my hands in his, turned them over. ‘Hmm. What can you do?’

I did not think it mattered what I said, given the continuing obscenities from the two lads struggling to manhandle a side of venison onto a spit. I would be given the lowliest of tasks. I would be a butt of jokes and innuendo.

‘Come on, girl! I’ve never yet met a woman with nothing to say for herself!’

So far I had been moved about like the bolt of cloth he had called me, but if this was to be my future I would not sink into invisibility. With Signora Damiata I had controlled my manner because to do otherwise would have called down retribution. Here I knew that I must stand up for myself and demand some respect.

‘I can do that, Master Humphrey. And that.’ I pointed at the washing and scouring going on in a tub of water. ‘I can do that.’ A small lad was piling logs on the fire.

‘So could an imbecile!’ The cook aimed a kick at the lad at the fire, who grinned back.

‘I can make bread. I can kill those.’ Chickens clucking unsuspectingly in an osier basket by the hearth. ‘I can do that.’ I pointed to an older man who was gutting a fish, scooping the innards into a basin with the flat of his hand. ‘I can make a tincture to cure a cough. And I can make a—’

‘My, my. What an addition to my kitchen.’ Master Humphrey gripped his belt and made a mocking little bow. He did not believe half of what I said.

‘I can keep an inventory of your food stuffs.’ I was not going to shut up unless he ordered me to. ‘I can tally your books and accounts.’ If I was condemned to work here, I would make a place for myself. Until better times.

‘A miracle, by the Holy Virgin.’ The mockery went up by a notch. ‘What is such a gifted mistress of all crafts doing in my kitchen?’ The laughter at my expense expanded too. ‘Let’s start with this for now.’

I was put to work raking the hot ashes from the ovens and scouring the fat-encrusted baking trays. No different from the Abbey or the Perrers’s household at all.

But it was different, and I relished it. Here was life at its most coarse and vivid, not a mean existence ruled by silence and obedience. This was no living death. Not that I enjoyed the work—it was hard and relentless and punishing under the eye of Master Humphrey and Sir Joscelyn—but here was no dour disapproval or use of a switch if I sullied the Rule of Saint Benedict. Or caught Damiata’s caustic eye. Everyone had something to say about every event or rumour that touched on Master Humphrey’s kitchen. I swear he could discuss the state of the realm as well as any great lord while slitting the gizzard of a peacock. It was a different world. I was now the owner of a straw pallet in a cramped attic room with two of the maids who strained the milk and made the rounds of cheese in the dairy. I was given a blanket, a new shift and kirtle—new to me at any event—a length of cloth to wrap round my hair and a pair of rough shoes.

Better than a lay sister at St Mary’s? By the Virgin, it was!

I listened as I toiled. The scullions gossiped from morn till night, covering the whole range of the royal family. The Queen was ill, the King protective. The King was well past the days of his much-lauded victory on the battlefield of Crécy against the bloody French, but still a man to be admired. Whilst Isabella, a madam, refusing every sensible marriage put to her. The King should have taken a whip to her sides! As for the Countess of Kent—my ears instantly pricked up—who had married the Prince and would one day be Queen, well, she was little better than a whore, and an ill-mannered one at that when it suited her. Thank God she was in Aquitaine with her long-suffering husband. Unaware of my interest, the scurrilous gossip continued.

Gascony and Aquitaine, our possessions across the channel, were in revolt. Ireland was simmering like a pot of soup. Now the buildings of the man Wykeham! Water directed to the kitchens to run direct from a spigot into a bowl at Westminster! May it come to Havering soon, pray God.

Meanwhile I was sent to haul water from the well twenty times a day. Master Humphrey had no need for me to read or tally. I swept and scoured and chopped, burned my hands, singed my hair and emptied chamber pots. I lifted and carried and swept up. And I worked even harder to keep the lascivious scullions and pot boys at a distance. I learned fast. By God, I did!

Sim. The biggest lout of them all with his fair hair and leering smile.

I did not need any warning. I had seen Sim’s version of romantic seduction when he trapped one of the serving wenches against the door of the woodstore. It had not been enjoyment on her face as he had grunted and laboured, his hose around his ankles. I did not want his greasy hands with their filthy nails on me. Or any other part of his body. The stamp of a foot on an unprotected instep, a sharp elbow to a gut kept the human vermin at bay for the most part. Unfortunately it was easy for Sim and his crowd to stalk me in the pantry or the cellar. If his arm clipped my waist once, it did so a dozen times within the first week.

‘How about a kiss, Alice?’ he wheedled, his foul breath hot against my neck.

I punched his chest with my fist, and not lightly. ‘You’ll get no kiss from me!’

‘Who else will kiss you?’ The usual chorus of appreciation from the crude, grinning mouths.

‘Not you!’

‘You’re an ugly bitch, but you’re better than a beef carcass.’

‘You’re not. I’d sooner kiss a carp from the pond. Now back off——and take your gargoyles with you.’ I had discovered a talent for wordplay and a sharp tongue and used it indiscriminately, along with my elbows.

‘You’ll not get better than me.’ He ground his groin, fierce with arousal, against my hip.

My knee slamming between his legs loosened his hold well enough. ‘Keep your hands to yourself! Or I’ll take Master Humphrey’s boning knife to your balls and we’ll roast them for supper with garlic and rosemary!’

I was not unhappy. But I was sorry not to be pretty, and that my talents were not used. How much skill did it take to empty the chamber pots onto the midden? And as I toiled, dipping coarse wicks in foul-smelling tallow to make candles for use in the kitchens and storerooms, all noise and bustle swirling around me, I allowed myself to step back into the days of my early novitiate. I allowed the Countess of Kent—indeed I invited her—to step imperiously into my mind. She might be in Aquitaine, but for those moments she lived again in the sweaty kitchen of Havering-atte-Bower.

How had such a lowly creature as I come to be noticed by so high-born a woman? What a spectacle she had provided for me, little more than a child that I had been. A travelling litter had swayed to a halt, marvellous with swags and gilded leather curtains and the softest of soft cushions, pulled by a team of six gleaming horses. Minions and outriders had filled the space. And so much luggage in an accompanying wagon to be unloaded. I had never seen such wealth. As I had watched, jewelled fingers had emerged and the curtains twitched back in a grand gesture.

Blessed Virgin! The sight had stopped my breath as a lady stepped from the palanquin, shaking out her silk damask skirts—a hint of deep patterned blue, of silver thread and luxuriant fur—and smoothing the folds of her mantle, the jewels on her fingers afire with a rainbow of light. She was not a young woman, but neither was she old, and she was breathtakingly beautiful. I could see nothing of her figure, shrouded as she was in the heavy cloak despite the warmth of the summer day, or of her hair, hidden beneath a crispinette and black veil, but I could see her face. It was a perfect oval of fair skin, and she was lovely. Her eyes, framed by the fine linen and undulating silk, were large and lustrous, the colour of new beech leaves.

This was Countess Joan of Kent, the ill-mannered whore of kitchen gossip.

From one of the wagons bounded a trio of little dogs that yapped and capered around her skirts. A hawk on a travelling perch eyed me balefully. And an animal such as I had never seen, all bright eyes and poking fingers, the colour of a horse chestnut with a ruff around its face and a long tail. Complete with a gold collar and chain, it leapt and clung to one of the carved side-struts of the litter. I could not look away. I was transfixed, entirely seduced by worldly glory, whilst the creature both charmed and repelled me in equal measure.

Then, without warning, with harsh cries and snatching hands, the exotic creature leapt to dart through the nuns, drawn up in ranks to welcome this visitor. The nuns flinched as one, their cries in counterpoint. The lap dogs yapped and gave chase. And as the animal scurried past me, I knew!

Stooping smartly, I snatched at the trailing end of its chain so that it came to a screaming, chattering halt at my feet, its sharp teeth very visible. I gave them no thought. Before it could struggle for release, I had lifted it into my arms. Light, fragile boned, its fur incredibly soft, it curled its fingers into my veil and held on, and I felt my face flush as a taut silence fell and all eyes turned on me.

Back in the kitchen, as the reek of hot tallow coated my flesh, I shivered, almost able to feel the scratch of the creature’s fingers as I cut and dipped. The rescue of Joan’s monkey had been a selfishly calculated action, nothing like my impulsive gesture to grasp the hand of the Queen of England. Should I have regretted my boldness? I did not. I had seized the only chance I had ever had to make someone notice me. I did not regret it even when I discovered that the lady was perusing me as if I were a fat carp in the market. I tried a curtsey, unfortunately graceless, my arms full of shrieking fury.

‘Well!’ the lady remarked, her lips at last curved into the semblance of a smile, although her eyes were cool. ‘How enterprising of you.’ And the smile widened into one of blinding charm, sparkling like ice on a puddle on a winter’s morn. ‘I need someone to see to my needs. This girl will do.’ And raising her hand in an authoritative gesture as if the matter was decided, ‘Come with me. Keep hold of the Barbary.’

And so I followed her, my mouth dry, belly churning with a strange mix of shock and excitement. I was to become a maidservant. To fetch and carry and perform menial tasks for a woman who had chosen me. For only a short time, it was true, but I had recognised a chance to be noticed. To be different. And I had held it, by the scruff of its gold-collared neck. But not for long. As soon as I had stepped into the rooms set aside for our guest, it squirmed from my hold to scamper up the embroidered hangings of the bed, to worry at the damask with sharp teeth. I remained where I was, just within the door, ignorant of my tasks.

‘Take these!’ she ordered.

Holding out a pair of embroidered gauntlets, she dropped them to the floor, anticipating that I should retrieve them. Her veil and wimple followed in similar fashion, carelessly discarded with no thought for the expensive cloth. I leapt to obey. Thus I had my first lesson as a lady’s waiting woman. The lady let the cloak fall into my arms, and I stood holding the weight of sumptuous cloth, not knowing what else to do. She gave me no direction, and the arrogance of her demeanour forbade me to ask.

‘God’s Bones!’ she remarked with casual blasphemy that impressed me. ‘Do I have to tolerate these drab accommodations? It’s worse than a dungeon in the Tower. It’s mean enough to make me repent!’ Picking up a jewel casket, she opened it and trilled a laugh that was not entirely pleasant. ‘You do not know who I am. Why should a novice in this backwater of a nunnery know of me? But by God! You will within a twelvemonth. The whole country will know of me.’ The viciousness of the tone was incongruous with such lovely features. She tossed the box onto the bed so that the jewels spilled out in a sparkling stream and cast a cursory glance in my direction. ‘I am Joan, Countess of Kent. For now at least. Soon I will be wife to Prince Edward. The future King of England.’

I knew nothing of her, or of the Prince who would be the next King. What I did know was that I had been chosen. She had chosen me to serve her. I think pride touched my heart. Mistakenly, as it turned out.

I became a willing slave to the Fair Maid of Kent whose grace and beauty were, she informed me, a matter for renown throughout the land. When she needed me, she rang a little silver bell that had remarkable carrying quality of sound. It rang with great frequency.

‘Take this gown and brush the hem—so much dust. And treat it with care.’

I brushed. I was very careful.

‘Fetch lavender—you do have lavender in your herb garden, I presume? Find some for my furs. I’ll not wear them again for some months …’

I ravaged Sister Margery’s herb patch for lavender, risking the sharp edge of the Infirmarian’s tongue.

‘Take that infernal monkey—’ for so I learned it to be ‘—into the garth. Its chatter makes my head ache. And water. I need a basin of water. Hot water—not cold as last time. And when you’ve done that, bring me ink. And a pen.’

Countess Joan was an exacting mistress, but I never minded the summonses. A window into the exhilarating world of the royal Court had been unlatched and flung wide, through which I might peer and wonder.

‘Comb out my hair,’ she ordered me.

So I did, loosening the plaited ropes of red gold to free them of tangles with an ivory comb I wished was mine.

‘Careful, girl!’ She struck out, catching my hand with her nails, enough to draw blood. ‘My head aches enough without your clumsy efforts!’

Countess Joan’s head frequently ached. I learned to move smartly out of range, but as often as she repelled me she lured me back. And the most awe-inspiring revelation, to my naive gaze?

The Countess Joan bathed!

It was a ceremony. I held a freshly laundered chemise over my arm and a towel of coarse linen. Countess Joan stripped off all her clothes without modesty. For a moment embarrassed shock crept over my skin, as if I too were unclothed. I had had no exposure to nakedness. No nun removed her undershift. A nun slept in her chemise, washed beneath it with a cloth dipped in a bowl of water, would die in it. Nakedness was a sin in the eye of God. Countess Joan had no such inhibitions. Gloriously naked, she stepped into her tub of scented water, while I simply gaped as I waited to hand her the linen when her washing was complete.

‘Now what’s wrong, girl?’ she asked with obvious amusement at my expense. ‘Have you never seen a woman in the flesh before? I don’t suppose you have, living with these old crones.’ She laughed, an appealing sound that made me want to smile, until I read the lines of malice in her face. ‘You’ll not have seen a man either, I wager.’ She yawned prettily in the heat, stretching her arms so that her breasts rose above the level of the scented water.

‘Wash my hair for me.’

I did, of course.

Wrapped in a chamber robe with her damp hair loose over her shoulders, Countess Joan delved into one of her coffers, removed a looking glass and stepped to the light from the window to inspect her features. She smiled at what she saw. Why would she not? I simply stared at the object with its silver frame and gleaming surface, until the Countess tossed her head, sensing my gaze.

‘What are you looking at?’ I shook my head. ‘I have no more need of you for now.’ She cast the shining object onto the bed. ‘Come back after Compline.’

But my fingers itched to touch it.

‘Your looking glass, my lady …’

‘Well?’

‘May I look?’ I asked.

She took me by surprise, and I was not fast enough. Countess Joan struck out with careless, casual violence, for no reason that I could see other than savage temper. An echoing slap made contact with my cheek so that I staggered, catching my breath.

‘Don’t be impertinent, girl!’ For a moment she considered me. Then her brows rose in perfect arcs and her lips curved. ‘But use the looking glass—if you really wish to.’

I took it from where it lay—and I looked. A reflection, a face that was more honest than anything I had seen in my water bowl, looked back at me. I was transfixed. Then without a word—for I could not find any to utter—I gently placed the glass face down on the bed.

‘Do you like what you see?’ Countess Joan enquired, enjoying my humiliation.

‘No!’ I managed through dry lips. My image in the water was no less than truth, and here it was proved beyond doubt. The dark eyes, depthless and without light like night water under a moonless sky. Even darker brows, as if drawn in ink with a clumsy hand. The strong jaw, the dominant nose and wide mouth. All so forceful! It was a blessing that my hair was covered. I was a grub, a worm, a nothing compared with this red-gold, pale-skinned beauty who smiled at her empty victory over me.

‘What did you expect?’ the Countess asked.

‘I don’t know,’ I managed.

‘You expected to see something that might make a man turn his head, didn’t you? Of course you did. What woman doesn’t? Much can be forgiven a woman who is beautiful. Not so an ugly one.’

How cruel an indictment, stated without passion, without any thought for my feelings. And it was at that moment, when she tilted her chin in satisfaction, that I saw the truth in her face. She was of a mind to be deliberately cruel, and as my heart fell with the weight of the evidence against me, I knew beyond doubt why she had chosen me to wait on her. I had had no part in the choosing. It had nothing to do with the antics of her perverse monkey, or my own foolish attempt to catch her attention, or my labours to be a good maidservant. She had chosen me because I was ugly, while in stark contrast this educated, sophisticated, highly polished Court beauty would shine as a warning beacon lit for all to wonder at on a hilltop. I was the perfect foil—too unlovely, too gauche, too ignorant to pose any threat to the splendour that was Joan of Kent.

I think, weighing the good against the bad, I truly detested her.

Without warning it all came to an end, of course. ‘I am leaving,’ the Countess announced after three weeks, the most exciting, exhilarating three weeks of my life. I had already seen the preparations—the litter had returned, the escort at that very moment cluttering up the courtyard—and I was sorry. ‘God’s Wounds! I’ll be glad to rid myself of these stultifying walls. I could die here and no one would be any the wiser. You have been useful to me.’ The Countess sat in the high-backed chair in her bedchamber, her feet neatly together in gilded leather shoes on a little stool, while the business of repacking her accoutrements went on around her. ‘I suppose I should reward you, but I cannot think how.’ She pointed as she stood with a swish of her damask skirts. ‘Take that box and carry the Barbary.’

With difficulty, at the cost of a bite, I recovered the monkey, but my mind was not on the sharp nip. There was one piece of knowledge I wanted from her. If I did not ask now …

‘My lady …’

‘I haven’t time.’ She was already walking through the doorway.

‘What gives a woman …?’ I thought about the word I wanted. ‘What gives a woman power?’

She stopped. She turned slowly, laughing softly, but her face was writ with a mockery so vivid that I flushed at my temerity. ‘Power? What would a creature such as you know of true power? What would you do with it, even if it came to you?’ The disdain for my ignorance was cruel in its sleek elegance.

‘I mean—the power to determine my own path in life.’

‘So! Is that what you seek?’ She allowed me a complacent little smile. And I saw that beneath her carelessness ran a far deeper emotion. She actually despised me, as perhaps she despised all creatures of low birth. ‘You’ll not get power, my dear. That is, if you mean rank. Unless you can rise above your station and become Abbess of this place.’ Her voice purred in derision. ‘You’ll not do it—but I’ll give you an answer. If you have no breeding then you need beauty. Your looks will get you nowhere. There is only one way left to you.’ Her smile vanished and I thought she gave my question some weight of consideration. ‘Knowledge.’

‘How can knowledge be power?’

‘It can, if what you know is of importance to someone else.’

What could I learn at the Abbey? To read the order of the day. To dig roots in the garden. To make simples in the Infirmary. To polish the silver vessels in the Abbey church.

‘What would I do with such learning?’ I asked in despair. How I loathed her in that moment of self-knowledge.

‘How would I know that? But I would say this. It is important for a woman to have the duplicity to make good use of what gifts she might have, however valueless they might seem. Do you have that?’

Duplicity? Did I possess it? I had no idea. I shook my head.

‘Guile! Cunning! Scheming!’ she snapped, my ignorance an affront. ‘Do you understand?’ The Countess retraced her steps to murmur in my ear as if it were a kindness. ‘You have to have the strength to pursue your goal, without caring how many enemies you make along the road. It is not easy. I have made enemies all my life, but on the day I wed the Prince they will be as chaff before the wind. I will laugh in their faces and care not what they say of me. Would you be willing to do that? I doubt it.’ The mockery of concern came swiftly to an end. ‘Set your mind to it, girl. All you have before you is your life in this cold tomb, until the day they clothe you in your death habit and sew you into your shroud.’

‘No!’ The terrible image drove me to cry out as if I had been pricked on the arm with one of Countess Joan’s well-sharpened pens. ‘I would escape from here.’ I had never said it aloud before, never put it into words. How despairing it sounded. How hopeless, but in that moment I was overwhelmed by the enormity of all that I lacked, and all that I might become if I could only encompass it.

‘Escape? And how would you live?’ An echo of Sister Goda’s words that were like a knife against my heart. ‘Without resources you would need a husband. Unless you would be a whore. A chancy life, short and brutish. Not one I would recommend. Better to be a nun.’ Sweeping me aside, she strode from the room and out into the courtyard, where she settled herself in her litter, and as I reached to deposit the monkey on the cushions and close the curtains, my services for her complete, I heard her final condemnation. ‘You’ll never be anything of value in life. So turn your mind from it.’ Then with a glinting smile, ‘I have decided how to reward you. Take the Barbary. I suppose it will give you some distraction—I begin to find it a nuisance.’

The creature was thrust out of the litter, back into my arms.

Thus in a cloud of dust Countess Joan was gone with her dogs and hawk and all her unsettling influences. But I did not forget her. For Countess Joan had applied a flame to my imagination. When it burned so fiercely that it was almost a physical hurt, I wished with all my heart I could quench it, but the fire never left me. The venal hand of ambition had fallen on me, grasping my shoulder with lethal strength, and refused to release me.

I am worth more than this, I determined as I knelt with the sisters at Compline, young as I was. I will be of value! I will make something of my life.

And had I not done so, by one means or another? Now I smiled, even as the vile stench of tallow filled my nose and throat. Despite the Countess’s judgement of me, here I was, by some miracle, at Havering-atte-Bower. Fate had snatched me up from the Abbey. I hummed tunelessly to myself. Why should fate not see a path to get me out of this hellish pit of heat and rank odours to where I might spread my wings? Especially if I gave it a helping hand.

As I dissuaded with the side of my foot one of the kitchen kittens from clawing at my skirts, I was distracted and my humming became a sharp hiss as the tallow dripped hotly onto my hand, pulling me back into the present.

When Princess Joan returned from Aquitaine, the frivolous royal Court would circle round the vivacious new Princess rather than the fading, unprepossessing Queen. Queen Philippa’s virtues would count for nothing against the brilliance of Princess Joan. I felt sorry that the Queen would be so eclipsed by a woman who was not worthy of fastening her laces, but was that not the order of things?

‘Well,’ I announced to the kitten, which had latched its claws into my shoe, ‘virtue or ambition? Goodness or worldliness? I would enjoy being able to choose between the two.’

Scooping it up, I shut the creature outside in the scullery, ignoring its plaintive mewing, as I went to answer an enraged bellow from Master Humphrey. Virtue was a fine thing—but could be as dull as a platter of day-old bread. Now, ambition was quite another matter—as succulent as the pheasants that Master Humphrey was simmering in spiced wine for the royal table.

And what happened to the monkey? Mother Abbess ordered it to be taken to the Infirmary and locked in a cellar. I never saw it again. Considering its propensity to bite, I was not sorry. Still I smiled. If I had the monkey now, I would set it loose on Sim with much malice and enjoyment.

Then all was danger, without warning. Two weeks of the whirlwind of kitchen life at Havering had lulled me into carelessness. And on that day I had been taken up with the noxious task of scrubbing down the chopping block where the joints of meat were dismembered.

‘And when you’ve done that, fetch a basket of scallions from the storeroom—and see if you can find some sage in the garden. Can you recognise it?’ Master Humphrey, shouting after me, still leaned toward the scathing.

‘Yes, Master Humphrey.’ Any fool can recognise sage.

I wrung out the cloth, relieved to escape the heat and sickening stench of fresh blood.

‘And bring some chives while you’re at it, girl!’

I was barely out of the door when my wrist was seized in a hard grip and I was almost jolted off my feet—and into the loathsome arms of Sim.

‘Well, if it isn’t Mistress Alice with her good opinion of herself!’

I raised my hand to cuff his ear but he ducked and held on. This was just Sim trying to make trouble since I had deterred him from lifting my skirts with the point of a knife and the red punctures still stood proud on his hand.

‘Get off me, you oaf!’

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.’

‘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.

‘Well, you’ve washed her and dressed her, Maman. For what it’s worth.’

‘You are uncharitable, Isabella.’ The Queen’s reply was unexpectedly sharp.

Isabella was not cowed. ‘What do we do with her now?’

‘What I intended from the beginning, despite your meddling. She will be one of my damsels.’

A royal damsel? Isabella’s brows climbed. I suspect mine did too. I was too shocked to consider how inappropriate my expression might be.

‘You don’t need her,’ Isabella cried in disbelief. ‘You have a dozen.’

‘No?’ A smile, a little sad to my mind, touched the Queen’s face. ‘Maybe I do need her.’

‘Then choose a girl of birth. Before God, there are enough of them.’

‘I know what I need, Isabella.’ As the Queen waved her daughter away she handed the rosary back to me.

‘My lady …’

What could I find to say? My fingers closed around the costly beads, whatever the Queen might say to the contrary. In the length of a heartbeat, in one firm command and one gesture of dismissal of her daughter’s hostility, the Queen had turned my life on its head.

‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ So Isabella had the last word.

She did not care that I heard her.

Why me? The one thought danced in my head when the ladies were gone about their customary affairs. A damsel—a lady in waiting to the Queen.

‘Why me?’ I asked aloud. ‘What have I to offer, Majesty?’

Philippa perused me as if searching for an answer, her features uncommonly stern.

‘Your Majesty?’

‘Forgive me. I was distracted.’ She closed her eyes: when she opened them there was a lingering vestige of sorrow, but her voice was kind enough. ‘One day I’ll tell you. But for now, let’s see what we can do with you.’

So there it was. Decided on some chance whim, with some underlying purpose that the Queen kept to herself. I became a domicella. A lady in waiting. Not a domina, one of the highborn, but a domicella. I was the youngest, least skilled and least important of the Queen’s ladies. But I was a part of her household. I was an inhabitant of her solar.

I could not believe my good fortune. When sent on some trivial errand through a succession of deserted antechambers, I lifted my skirts above my ankles and, fired by sheer exuberance, danced a measure of haphazard steps to the lingering echoes of the lute from the solar. Not well, you understand, for it was something I had yet to learn, but more than I had ever achieved in my life. It fascinated me what confidence a fine robe with fur edgings could bestow on a woman. When a passing maidservant, one I had brushed shoulders with in the hot squalor of the kitchens, dropped an open-mouthed, reluctant curtsey before rushing off to spread the news of the marvellous advancement of Alice Perrers, I danced again. This was more like it. Alice Perrers: a court lady, in such finery as she could never have imagined. It was all too much to believe, my transition from greasy servant to perfumed damsel, but if one of the kitchen sluts afforded me a sign of respect, then it must be so. I was so full of joy that I could barely restrain myself from shouting my good fortune to the still, watchful faces in the tapestries.

I would, if I had my way, never set foot in a kitchen again.

What would clerk Greseley say if he could see me now? Waste of good coin! I suspected. Better to put it into bricks and mortar! What remark would Wykeham find to make, other than an explanation of his ambitions to construct a royal bath house and garderobe? I laughed aloud. And the King? King Edward would only notice me if I had cogs and wheels that moved and slid and clicked against each other.

I tried a pirouette, awkward in the shoes that were too loose round the heel. One day, I vowed, I would wear shoes that were made for me and fitted perfectly.

As for what the Queen might want of me in return, it could not be so very serious, could it?

They tripped over their trailing skirts, the Queen’s damsels, to transform me into a lady worthy of my new position. I was a pet. A creature to be cosseted and stroked, to relieve their boredom. It was not in my nature, neither was it a role I wished to play, but it was an exhilarating experience as they created the new Alice Perrers.

I absorbed it all: anointed and burnished, my hands smothered in perfumed lotions far headier than anything produced in Sister Margery’s stillroom, my too-heavy brows plucked into what might pass for an elegant arch—if the observer squinted. Clothes, and even jewels, were handed over with casual kindness. A ring, a brooch to pin my mantle, a chain of gilt and gleaming stones to loop across my breast. Nothing of great value, but enough that I might exhibit myself in public as no less worthy of respect than the ladies from high-blooded families. I spread my fingers—now smooth with pared nails, to admire the ring with its amethyst stone. It was as if I was wearing a new skin, like a snake sloughing off the old in spring. And I was woman enough to enjoy it. I wore the rosary fastened to my girdle, enhanced with silver finials even finer than those of Abbess Sybil.

‘Better!’ Isabella remarked after sour contemplation. ‘But I still don’t know why the Queen wanted you!’

It remained beyond my comprehension too.

The Queen’s damsels were feminine, pretty, beautiful. I was none of those. Their figures were flattered by the new fashion, with gowns close-fitting from breast to hip. The rich cloth hung on me like washing on a drying pole. They were gifted in music for the Queen’s pleasure. Any attempt to teach me to sing was abandoned after the first tuneless warble. Neither did my fingers ever master the lute strings, much less the elegant gittern. They could stitch a girdle with flowers and birds. I had no patience with it. They conversed charmingly in French, with endless gossip, with shared knowledge of people of the Court. I knew no one other than Wykeham, who deigned to speak with me when he returned to Court, even noting my change of fortune—’Well, here’s an improvement, Mistress Perrers! Have you learnt to ride yet?’—but his fixation with building arches was the subject of laughter. Master Wykeham clearly did not flirt.

For the damsels, flirtation was an art in itself. I never learned it. I was too forthright for that. Too critical of those I met. Too self-aware to pretend what I did not feel. And if that was a sin, I was guilty. I could not pretend an interest or an affection where I had none.

Had I nothing to offer? What I had, I used to make myself useful, or noticed, or even indispensable. I had set my feet in the Queen’s solar. I would not be cast off, as Princess Isabella cast off her old gowns. I worked hard.

I could play chess. The ordered rules of the little figures pleased me. I had no difficulty in remembering the measures of a knight against a bishop, the limitations of a queen against a castle. As for the foolish pastime of Fox and Geese, I found an unexpected fascination in manoeuvring the pieces to make the geese corner the fox before that wily creature could prey on the silly birds.

‘I’ll not play with you, Alice Perrers!’ Isabella declared, abandoning the game. ‘Your geese are too crafty by half.’

‘Craftier than your fox, my lady.’ Isabella’s fox was tightly penned into a corner by my little flock of birds. ‘Your fox is done for, my lady.’

‘So it is!’ Isabella laughed, more out of surprise than amusement, but she resisted a cutting rejoinder.

To please the damsels I made silly, harmless love charms and potions, gleaned from my memory of Sister Margery’s manuscripts in the Abbey’s Infirmary. A pinch of catnip, a handful of yarrow, a stem of vervain, all wrapped in a scrap of green silk and tied with a red cord. If they believed they were effective, I would not deny it, although Isabella swore I was more like to add the deadly hemlock in any sachet I made for her. I read to them endlessly when they wanted tales of courtly love, between a handsome knight and the object of his desire, to sigh over.

Not bad at all for a nameless, ill-bred girl from a convent. I would never be nameless and overlooked again. Pride might be a sin, but it filled my breast with gratification. Why should I not be proud of my advancement? I would be somebody worthy of a position at the royal court. I was Alice, Queen’s damsel.

And Isabella was wrong. I would never use hemlock. I knew enough from Sister Margery’s caustic warnings to be wary of such satanic works.

But what service could I offer Queen Philippa when the whole household was centred on fulfilling her wishes even before she expressed them? That was easy enough. I made draughts of white willow bark.

‘You are a blessing to me, Alice.’ The pain had been intense that day, but now, propped against her pillows, the willow tincture making her drowsy, she sighed heavily with relief. ‘I am a burden to you.’

‘It is not a burden to me to give you ease, my lady.’

I saw the lines beside her eyes begin to smooth out. She would sleep soon. The days of pain were increasing in number and her strength to withstand it was ebbing, but tonight she would have some measure of peace.

‘You are a good girl.’

‘I wasn’t a good novice!’ I responded smartly.

‘Sit here. Tell me about those days when you were a bad novice.’ Her eyelids drooped but she fought the strength of the drug.

So I did, because it pleased me to distract her. I told her of Mother Abbess and her penchant for red stockings. I told her of Sister Goda and her heavy hand, of the chickens that fell foul of the fox because of my carelessness and how I was punished. I knew enough by now not to speak of Countess Joan. Joan, the duplicitous daughter-in-law, far away in Aquitaine with her husband the Prince—she had entrapped him after all—was not a subject to give the Queen a restful night.

‘It was good that I found you,’ she murmured.

‘Yes, my lady.’ I smoothed a piercingly sweet unguent into the tight skin of her wrist and hand. ‘You have changed my life.’

A little silence fell but the Queen was not asleep. She was contemplating something beyond my sight that did not seem entirely to please her, gouging a deep cleft between her brows. Then she blinked and fixed me with an uncomfortable gaze. ‘Yes, Alice. I am sure it was good that you fell into my path.’

I was certain it was not merely to smear her suffering flesh with ointments. A shiver of awareness assailed me in the overheated room, for her declamation suggested some deep uncertainty. Had I done something to lose her regard so soon? I cast my mind over what I might have said or done to cast her into doubt. Nothing came to mind. So I asked.

‘Why did you choose me, my lady?’

When the Queen looked at me, her eyes were hooded. She closed her free hand tightly around the jewelled cross on her breast, and her reply held none of her essential compassion. Indeed, her voice was curt and bleak, and she drew her hand from my ministrations as if she could not bear my touch.

‘I chose you because I have a role for you, Alice. A difficult one perhaps. And not too far distant. But not yet. Not quite yet …’ She closed her eyes at last, as if she would shut me from her sight. ‘I’m weary now. Send for my priest, if you will. I’ll pray with him before I sleep.’

I left her, more perplexed than ever. Her words resurfaced as I lit my own candle and took myself to bed in the room I shared with two of the damsels. Sleep would not come.

I have a role for you. A difficult one perhaps. And not too far distant …