The King's Mistress (51 page)

Grandmother and my sister, Mary, fussed over Joan, and I saw to Bella. While at Sheen, Wykeham had suggested several nunneries, the two closest being St. Helen’s Priory and Barking Abbey.

“Barking is for the highborn,” I demurred.

“Your daughter is the goddaughter of a former queen, Dame Alice, and her half brother and sister have the king for their sire. With a generous dowry, which you have already said you will provide, she would be welcome there.”

Wykeham had written Bella a letter of introduction. One dreary January day she and I rode out to the abbey, accompanied by Robert. The beauty of the church and grounds, coupled with the serenity of the abbess and the novices Bella and I met, calmed me, but what convinced me that this was the right place for Bella was her response to the abbey. She glowed with joy there and respectfully asked such pertinent questions that I understood then how much thought she had devoted to this decision.

The abbess, plainly delighted by and impressed with my daughter, suggested that she bide with them for a year while considering whether this course seemed right for her. Bella wished very much to do so. The abbess assured me that Dame Agnes and I might visit her a few times during that year.

My heart was heavy on the ride back to London without my daughter. Robert attempted to distract me with details of his autumn visits of inspection to my properties. His friendship was precious to me.

As ever, my peace was short-lived. Richard Lyons, Geoffrey, and Pippa dined with me a few days later, all abuzz about the clemency shown to the murderer of Nicholas Sardouche, a Lombard merchant Janyn had known long ago. I had not heard of the incident, which had happened in Cheapside, shortly before Christmas. Sardouche argued with a mercer who owed him over £100 sterling. The mercer, joined by two other mercers who claimed not to know him, beat Sardouche to death.

“London mercers against Lombard merchants—it is an old story,” said Richard. “Even my fellow Flemings take precautions when traveling in the city at night. The London guilds claim the king unjustly favors the foreigners.”

“All three were set free without punishment,” said Geoffrey.

“How can the court be so blind?” I asked.

“You have been too long in the king’s company, my friend,” said Geoffrey. “You forget the angry undercurrents in the marketplace.”

“It seems to me they have taken that anger to parliament,” said Pippa. “They say the commons have turned on the king.”

News from parliament had trickled through the city. The people were excited about it, seeing it as a triumph. The commons blamed the clerical councillors for the failed war effort in France, particularly Wykeham and the treasurer, Thomas Brantingham, Bishop of Ely. In exchange for their agreement to new taxation, the commons insisted the two be replaced by laymen. Edward had bowed to their demands. By the time I was reunited with him, I was agitated beyond wise courtesy.

“You asked William Wykeham to step down? But, Edward, he is your good friend and trusted adviser. He came to you so recently, guiding you through your mourning. You have sung his praises as chancellor to me. I cannot understand why,
how
you succumbed to the rabble’s demand.”

“Alice, my love, I hardly expect you to understand how a king must rule. Wykeham is still Bishop of Winchester, and he is still my wise counselor. I spoke to him in private. He agreed to this for the sake of the kingdom. As did Brantingham.”

Edward’s words were brave and matter of fact, but the vein throbbing in his temple and his clammy skin bore witness to his secret disappointment and anger, a frustrated anger. I feared, as had Lancaster when he had sent for me after Philippa’s death, that the king’s age rendered him increasingly vulnerable. He needed one of his eldest sons by his side. Edmund and Thomas were too untried to advise him.

“Promise me that you will indeed abide by Wykeham’s counsel,” I implored. I was frightened for Edward. I did not understand this new power of the commons—for power they must have, to have coerced him into parting with Wykeham.

He lifted my chin and kissed me. “I have already said I shall. Do not fret, Alice.”

But I did, even more so as further changes came in swift order. Edward made William Latimer his chamberlain and John Neville of Raby, our son’s second godfather, his steward. I was not concerned by Neville’s appointment, but could not fathom what Edward saw in Latimer. I knew him a little through Richard Lyons and his time at court,
and thought him an opportunist more suited to affairs of customs and the mint than the king’s household. He could not possibly have been Edward’s own choice. My beloved seemed no longer to be in control.

I was relieved to hear that Prince Edward and Princess Joan had landed and were expected at court at any time. I had forgotten for the moment why they had left Bordeaux and prayed they would know how to set things right. But I had my doubts when I beheld them. At the sight of his eldest son being carried into the hall on a litter, Edward sought my hand and clutched it so tightly that tears sprang to my eyes. Princess Joan walked beside her ailing husband, regal and elegant even after the long journey. As soon as she had instructed the litter bearers in the manner in which to proceed, she hurried forward to bow in obeisance to Edward. I nudged him to lift his eyes from his shattered son and attend to Joan.

When she straightened and allowed a servant to remove her mantle, the toll of the years in Bordeaux was revealed. Her beautiful face was fraught with lines of weariness and sorrow, her once lithe body, plump now. Even so, she outshone anyone in the hall, and her kind eyes and bright smile lit me within as she greeted me with sincere warmth. An ally had returned.

Later, after a brief rest, the prince managed to walk from his chamber to that of the king for the welcoming dinner. He leaned on both Joan’s arm and that of a page, but made an effort to straighten up and give his father a slight bow before taking his seat at the table. The talk was of Channel crossings and the funeral arrangements for young Edward, which had been left for John to carry out in the cathedral of St. André in Bordeaux. Lancaster was still in France.

Edward wept in my arms that night. “He was the bravest of us all, my glorious son and heir! Now he is a swollen, misshapen creature, crippled by humiliation.”

E
ARLY THE
following morning Princess Joan knelt beside me in the chapel as Mass began. It was comforting to have her there, exuding a perfume both flowery and spicy, softly whispering prayers as she fingered her ivory and jet paternoster beads. The king was sitting up above in his private area, warmly wrapped. He had slept little.

After the service Joan asked if she might accompany me to my chamber.

“It has been so long since we talked. I want to hear about my
namesake Joan, and how John likes the Percy household. And beautiful Bella—is it true that she is at Barking?”

When I expressed my sorrow over the death of her son, she squeezed my hand. “Let us not speak of my troubles, not this morning, Alice. I must find a way back to joy.”

In my chamber I drew out my latest treasure, a long mirror that Edward had recently given me. Gwen had quickly become adept at holding it so that if I turned a little this way and that, for the first time in my life I could see almost my entire self.

I, too, had added some weight of late. Not so much as Joan, but enough to require alterations in most of my gowns. I stood before the mirror and frowned at my own reflection.

Joan laughed. “You are so lovely, Alice, and so young! Revel in your time, my friend.” She stepped forward. “Now hold it up for me, Gwen, I pray you.”

Joan was beautiful this morning, her gown cleverly fitted to accentuate her breasts and disguise her thickened waist.

“The needlework is excellent, the body shockingly aged,” she said with an exaggerated frown. “This is no avenue to joy!” Her silks whispered as she settled down on the window seat and patted the cushions beside her. “Now come, tell me about your darlings.”

We talked for an hour or more. I had not laughed so much in a long while. She described magnificent feasts and tournaments, ridiculous lords and ladies, gorgeous gardens and water courses. By the time she left, I felt I knew something of Bordeaux and why she loved it so. Except for the toll it had taken on her family.

T
O MY
immense discomfort, Prince Edward summoned me to his chamber later in the morning, to glean what he could regarding his father’s health and state of mind. It seemed father and son were mutually dismayed by the changes time had wrought in each other.

“My lord, with all respect, it would seem best you should ask such questions of His Grace, your father, and his physicians. I am neither qualified nor at liberty to discuss His Grace’s health.”

“Who better?” Prince Edward barked, with a loud, brittle laugh. “I wager you are more familiar with his body and his moods than any other in the kingdom! He has planted two children in your womb … or is it three?”

I blushed to realize how much the sons must talk of me. Of us. I wished Princess Joan had remained present.

“Can he still perform, eh?”

Can you?
I wanted to say, but bit my tongue.

My silence seemed to rebuke him. He shaped his bloated face into an expression of concern. “Forgive me. Discomfort makes me cruel. I pray you, be at ease, and hold it not against me. I count on you to be my ally.”

He told me of his long illness, and with bitterness described the gradually escalating disrespect he had suffered from the Gascon lords. In his version it was not his own poor judgment and quick temper that had led to his abandonment by the Gascons, but rather their arrogant dismissal of his authority because of his infirmity—a lord who could not sit a horse on campaign need not be obeyed.

“This must not happen here. My father the king must not appear weak. The barons must never sense that they might gain ascendancy over him.”

His swollen face burned with outrage, yet his voice was but a whisper.

“My lord, I have seen no evidence of such dishonor or disloyalty.”

“What of this parliament? How dare they question the king’s authority to raise taxes in order to defend their own pathetic lives?” His emotion set off a coughing fit. A servant hurried forward with a warm drink.

“My lord, I have no knowledge of the workings of parliament. Perhaps the Bishop of Winchester might better inform you.”

“Wykeham?” He growled the name. “His incompetence has brought us to this crisis! Do not speak of Wykeham in my presence.”

Then more fool you, I thought. “What would you have me do, my lord?”

“Stay by the king’s side as much as you are able. Review his dress. Recommend that he retire and see no one when he is unwell.”

“My lord, you describe an invalid. His Grace is by no means that. He rides, he hawks, he presides over meetings with his council.”

“Which brings me back to my earlier question, is he still active in bed?”

I had never been fond of the prince, but liked him even less at that moment. Fortunately, his physician had just entered the room.

“Your physician awaits you, my lord. May God go with you.” I bowed to Prince Edward and withdrew.

It was one thing to obey the king, but the thought of being the pawn of his sons I could not bear. After I’d worked off my fury on a long ride, I felt ill and took to my bed for the rest of the day. It was not as pleasant as it might have been to burrow down beneath the bedclothes and doze, for my mind was troubled. I could brush aside the prince’s bawdiness and bitterness, but not his concern that Edward should appear hale and hearty at all times to the courtiers and the public. Had he not seemed so to his son? As the day wore on I grew more fearful that Edward was in a decline I had failed to see. I felt the deep sand shifting beneath me. I wanted to be his lover, not his keeper. Had that blinded me to the extent of the changes in him?

Yet I knew that I must manage to be gracious to the prince. I could not risk offending him. I must do as he asked, though I felt he saw me as little more than a servant.

But taking on ever more responsibility for Edward’s welfare might prove difficult for the next nine months or so. Gwen groaned when I became ill two mornings in a row.

“At least you will cease growling at the mirror,” she said. “You know now why your waist is widening. You were wrong about your flux being delayed because the commons’ behavior upset you so.”

Weeks later, when I was certain enough to tell Edward the news, he bragged to his son that he had once more sired a child.

Prince Edward winked at me.

Princess Joan suddenly suggested that we leave the men to talk. She walked with me to my chamber, sitting on my bed and inviting me to join her.

“My husband is angry at the world these days, sweet Alice. I pray you, pay him no heed. His purpose was not to insult you.” She leaned close and smoothed my hair from my forehead, kissing me on the cheek. She smelled of lavender and sandalwood. “You have made the king so happy. He is giddy with pride and reassured of his manhood.”

“Do you find him very changed?”

She sat back and tilted her head to study me, no longer smiling. “Are you worried about him?”

“Your husband is.” I told her of Prince Edward’s suggestions.

Joan took a deep breath. “The king grows old, Alice. He does look much older than when I last saw him, but I expected as much. He has
lost Philippa, Lionel, Mary and Margaret, Blanche—the list is endless, is it not? And the Aquitaine.” She glanced away for a moment, as if composing herself.

“Then I should heed your husband’s advice?”

She shook herself as if emerging from a dream and smiled on me. “Continue as you have been, Alice. I have heard of no one showing disrespect to the king.”

This time Edward insisted I remain by his side until a month before I expected to be lying in, and I did not argue. It was as if Prince Edward had lifted a veil from my eyes. I grew more aware of my beloved’s lapses. One morning in late summer he woke to no feeling in his right arm. I massaged it and made him perform simple movements until we were both reassured that, whatever had happened, it had passed. But often afterward I would notice that arm hanging limply and would touch it to remind him that it was there.