The King's Mistress (49 page)

Even worse for me, Bella and my own son, John, had not been invited and so spent the Christmas season with Dame Agnes, a failing Nan, and her replacement as the children’s nurse, Betys.

I was rescued from this unpleasant atmosphere by the burial of Queen Philippa. Her entombment had been delayed until the abbey was ready, and Advent and Christmastide had passed. When the funeral procession accompanying her coffin to Westminster departed from King’s Langley, I was permitted to retire to London. Richard Stury and a new man in Edward’s entourage, William Latimer, escorted me.

My John, now four years old, greeted me with such tearful joy that my own emotion rendered me speechless. Hugs and kisses sufficed.
Bella waited her turn with good grace, then flung herself into my welcoming arms.

That night, as Nan, Grandmother, Gwen, and I shared some spiced wine in my chamber before we all retired, I learned that Henry, Lord Percy had visited with several kinswomen, assessing in which household John might best be fostered. Edward had not told me of the visit, and my first reaction was of fury.

“How dare they come here without my leave? He is my son!” I had known, of course, that John would likely be fostered by the Percys. But to frighten him with the possibility that they would take him while I was away was unforgivable. I could not sit still but started to pace angrily, holding my stomach.

“Have a care,” Gwen said, draping a soft wool mantle over my shoulders.

“I did not think they would take him from us so soon.” Dame Agnes dabbed her eyes. Since Grandfather’s death my little family had become her succor and delight, the beneficiaries of all her needlework and worry.

“I would have warned you had I known it was imminent. And I would have found a way to prepare John.” It was made worse by the fact that I did not care for Henry, Lord Percy, nor trust him. He seemed to me a man out to advance his own family no matter who fell before his ruthless advance. Such blatant disregard for both John’s feelings and mine was proof of it. But Edward did trust Percy.

“Your life is not yours to order, is it, Alice?” asked Nan. Sweet, elderly, frail she might be, but she still saw what was right in front of her more clearly than anyone else I knew.

“What woman’s life is?” asked Dame Agnes.

“But I trow it is worse for the mistress of a king,” said Nan. “Is that not so, Alice?”

Her words conjured up memories of my resentment when I’d first gone to court, how I had felt I was treated as a child.

“It is true. I command servants, live in most beautiful houses, own and manage property, and have the love of the king—it would seem that I have everything. But the price I pay is that my own life is not mine to order. The king commands and I obey.”

“Women rarely have a say in their sons’ occupations,” Dame Agnes soothed me, “and many of the wealthier merchant families send their boys away to be fostered in homes with good connections. I did not
expect we might be left to raise little John de Southery in London. But I hated to see how disquieted the children were by the proud Lord Percy and his haughty women.”

After a fitful night’s sleep I asked Bella about the incident.

“They frightened John, picking him up, asking him if he would like to live with them. And they talked about his appearance, his speech, how he carries himself, as if they did not think he could understand. He thought they meant to steal him. He still cries out in the night if he cannot see me or Betys.”

My sweet son, when I inquired how he found the Percys, clenched his little fists to steel himself as he declared them arrogant, discourteous. But his bottom lip betrayed him, and then the tears came. I held him close, assuring him of both my love and his father’s.

I could not imagine that Edward would have agreed to such treatment of our son. I poured out my anger and frustration to him in a letter, certain he would agree, and sealed it with my signet. I’d sent a messenger with it to him at Westminster before doubt overtook me, doubt that I had a right to demand anything for my son. Then I prayed that I might put the matter out of my mind and enjoy being reunited with my children. This required the cooperation of Nan and Dame Agnes, who were loath to silence their irritation, but both of them remembered that a woman in my condition was easier to live with if she had her way.

One of my new pleasures was to lie down in the afternoons with my son. It began during one of his bursts of anger that were so like Bella’s when she had been too tired but too stubborn to rest, and as I stretched out on my bed I invited John to join me. Curled up against me, his head on my stomach, he fell asleep at once. With his calming warmth beside me I was able to set aside my fears for a while, and eventually I slept as well. On the following day he expected we would do the same after the midday meal, and I was delighted to comply. Again he slept, again I fell asleep as well. And so it became our routine.

A
WEEK AFTER
I had written to Edward condemning the behavior of Henry Percy and his family, a messenger from the king informed us that on the following day John, Bella, and I would be escorted to the White Tower in the city. King Edward wished to show the children the exotic animals housed there, gifts he had received from far and wide—tigers, lions, monkeys, and more. I was delighted for the
children, and I was excited as well. Later that day, however, I fell prey to worry about Edward’s responding in such an impersonal manner, whether rather than being angry with the Percys Edward might be angry with me. But I was determined not to allow my gratitude for the day’s adventure or my own worry soften my stance on the Percy family’s high-handed behavior, particularly their scheming to meet John when I was not there.

The White Tower was a tall stone keep surrounded by smaller timber buildings set in gardens along the River Thames. The high, well-fortified walls encircling the entire area prevented any enjoyment of the riverside views, except from some of the upper stories or the top of the wall, but it was lovely within.

“Did they build this so the animals could not escape?” John asked as we entered the inner ward from the gatehouse.

“No, John, this was built long ago to protect the royal family in time of war. The animals came later.”

Just then he caught sight of his father and began to jump up and down, waving his little arms. Edward had been frowning at his companion, his son Thomas of Woodstock, but as he noticed us, and his youngest child’s antics, his face relaxed into an expression of such fatherly love that my anger eased a little. Thomas, too, came to greet us and then took his leave, exhibiting far more courtesy than at our Christmas meeting.

How I loved Edward as we exchanged greetings now, his eyes warm and welcoming. John clamored to be noticed. When he raised his arms in the hope of being lifted up by his father the king, he was instead proffered a hand.

“Come, my son. You are beyond the age to be carried. We shall walk together.” Edward held out his other hand. “And, my dear Mistress Bella, please walk with us. Let us confer with the keeper of the royal menagerie!” He winked at me and proceeded toward the area whence came animal sounds that made me ill at ease.

I followed with the nurse, Betys, who was dumbstruck by the grandeur of the place.

Edward delighted, as ever, in the children’s excitement. He was charming to Bella and John, and both were fascinated by the creatures on display, though John chose not to reach into the cage to touch the male lion’s mane when the keeper offered him the chance. Bella did stroke it and declared it rough and filthy. Edward roared with delight.

“You speak your mind just like your mother. You shall lead the young men a merry dance, sweet Bella!”

I was grateful that he treated her with such affection. In awe of him, she treasured such moments more than all his lavish gifts. I understood, remembering the day on Sheppey when he had made me feel “seen.”

While the children and their nurse talked to the keeper, Edward led me to a bench where we might rest and talk.

“You are beautiful today as always, my love,” he said. “Are you well? This is not too tiring for you? You are pale.” He touched my cheek.

“I am comfortable,” I assured him. Then repeated to him the tale of young John’s nighttime fears since the ill-advised visit by Henry, Lord Percy and company.

“I apologize for their behavior, Alice. I thought it would be easier for you if they met our son when you were not present. I am well aware of your reluctance to let him go. I am sorry for that. I love both of you—you know that.”

To say I was disappointed that it had been Edward’s idea for them to visit when I was absent would be an understatement. “Have you no heart, Edward? Henry Percy
frightened
our son. Does that not anger you?”

Edward chuckled. “He is a loud lout. But what is done is done, and he is impressed with the way you have raised John so far.” He kissed my hand.

I was too angry to be charmed. “So even after this breach of courtesy, John will be fostered by a Percy? You might have your choice of noble families.”

“He will go with Percy, Alice. John may be a bastard but he is my son and shall be raised as such, knowing his duties to me and the realm, able to move with ease among kings, emperors, archbishops, barons, popes, … and Percys.” He marked my lack of amusement at his wordplay. “You shall not stand in his way, and that is an end to the discussion.” He startled me with the coolness of his tone, the sudden abandoning of my hand.

We said no more, but sat observing the children. I was relieved that Edward did not press us to linger once John grew weary and fretful.

Of course, I had always been aware of two Edwards, one who was king and treated me as his subject, and one who was my lover, who
needed me, cherished and protected me. Sometimes this duality so frightened me that I would seek reassurance by cuddling up to him. It often worked, inspiring him to remember his other self and soften. But this was hardly the place to behave so, and I found myself wishing only to flee his presence.

Indeed, for the first time in a long while, I looked forward to being away from Edward. Afterward I wrote a loving, gently apologetic letter, explaining that I had only wished to protect our son. I promised to argue no more against his being fostered by Henry, Lord Percy. Edward expressed his satisfaction at this, sending pearls and a miniver-lined cloak to reward me for my obedience, and agreeing that I might spend the remainder of the winter at Fair Meadow, awaiting the birth of our child.

By Candlemas I was settled at my beloved manor. Sacrilegious as it may sound, I felt as if God had held off the winter snows until I was safely installed, then covered the world in a snowy blanket for several months, tucking me in. John and Bella were with me, as well as Dame Agnes, Nan, Gwen, and my household servants including Betys and Robert. Edward had also agreed that I might choose my own midwife, and I had immediately requested Felice, who had presided over Bella’s birth. She would bide with us closer to the time. Content, I allowed myself to become lost in the dream of this happy little household remaining undisturbed for a long, long while.

Robert and I grew close that winter and spring. He had recently lost his wife of a few years and welcomed the opportunity to be away from his home near London where every room evoked memories of her suffering. She had fallen down the stairs in early pregnancy, losing the child and eventually her own life. For months she had lain in bed, barely able to move, speaking little, her mother looking after her. We talked of our lost spouses, and gradually he seemed to have said all that he wished to say of this and turned the talk to the coming child, to Bella and John, and to the work ahead on my properties and on his—he had begun to acquire his own modest estate. I felt I could say anything to him. The children thought of him as their uncle. I thought of him as an uncomplicated friend in whose company I could be at ease. It was a happy time.

While the snows lasted, the dreamy state of my comfortable little household did, too. Even well into the thaw we received neither guests nor messengers. But early in April, toward the end of the Lenten
season, a letter arrived from Edward announcing that an escort would arrive for our son John at the royal hunting lodge near Fair Meadow on the eve of Lammas Day. My son would be gone from me in four months.

Another blow came shortly after Easter, in late April, when Nan took to her bed, refused food or drink, and within a few days simply stopped breathing. There was not a soul in the household who did not mourn the loss of her sweet presence.

Bella was the first to notice that Nan had died—pressing her ear to the shrunken bosom, then lifting her hand and finding it cold and lifeless. Her cry had brought me rushing to her side. After the burial, my daughter seemed to spend her days in prayer, her lips moving ceaselessly as she performed all her chores. This stopped only when she was at her lessons. Though I had always found comfort in prayer myself, I worried that Bella’s piety might result from her childhood pain, my absence while she grieved for her beloved father.

But her example drew me back into the habit of daily prayer, first for dear Nan’s soul, later for myself and my family and all in my household. I found myself including Robert in my orisons more and more, appreciating the security he provided my family. And always Bella was with me in the chapel, rapt in devotions.

It should have come as no surprise to me when on her thirteenth birthday in late June she expressed her wish to take vows. But her announcement, coming just over a month before young John was to leave the household, gripped my heart with a terrible sense of loss.

“Is it a vocation, my love, or something else?” I asked. “Have you considered all that you renounce by taking vows? The love of a husband? The joy of children?”

Bella was so beautiful it seemed a sacrilege to close her up among brittle old women who had never known life or grieving widows seeking safe havens. I was concerned that she as yet had only a vague sense of what she would be renouncing, and of the tedium of such a life if her vocation turned out to be simply an idea with no substance.