The King's Mistress (58 page)

I crossed myself. Stury did as well. He was being deferential and kind, for which I was most grateful. And yet it frightened me all the more that he should pity me, the stoic Stury.

I was warned that if I were to be found practicing any form of protection of my “people,” such as interfering in the courts or bribing
officials, my property would all be forfeit. What most frightened me was the vagueness of the terms of forfeit—for it was not clear who was to judge whether any act of mine might be construed as interference, nor whom they accused me of protecting. It seemed to me a gift to my enemies, an accusation they might pull out of the air to condemn me at any time.

Despite my years of loyalty and devotion, I was condemned for my efforts to secure a good future for my children. Abandoned by those who had sworn to protect me. How had it come to this? What a fool I had been to ignore my doubts about the sincerity of Prince Edward and Duke John. What a fool I had been to follow my heart rather than my head.

My most immediate agony was that I had been officially banished from Edward’s side. Stury warned me to stay well away from the king for the nonce.

“You will be sent for when sufficient protections are in place.”

So Lancaster had promised. I prayed he would keep his word, but did not know how I could trust I would be allowed back. Lancaster was so changed from the handsome, courteous young man I had met with his grandmother so long ago, who had presented me with Melisende.

When Stury departed I sat staring out of the window, seeing nothing, blind with shock. I feared for my daughters if I were imprisoned. They needed their mother. Robert and Gwen found me there, steadied me, and insisted that I eat and drink and then walk out into the air, assuring me that they would see to the safety of Joan and Jane.

I could not think what best to do. Robert had some property to which we might retreat, but I feared he might be one I was accused of “maintaining.” I urged him to go about his duties quietly, and to retreat to his own property at the first sign of trouble. My brother John suggested I hide in the open, where no one would think to see me, in London, at his house. But I feared for his family and Mary’s if I were noticed. And what would happen to me then? What of my daughters? The specter of the Tower loomed large in my nightmares.

Help came from an unexpected quarter; Robert Linton, a knight in Edward’s household who had always been kind to me, offered me sanctuary at an estate deep in the West Country, where my daughters and I might await rescue.

“They have no cause to connect us, Dame Alice. They will not look for you there.”

“You and yours shall be forever in my prayers, Sir Robert,” I vowed. His kindness and courage gave me hope in that dark time.

It was a long journey by barge and along rutted country tracks with carts and children, all the while watching over my shoulder for my enemies. But once we arrived without mishap I gave myself over to the beauty of Somerset, devoting myself to my girls and deeply grateful for the respite. On the feast of the Virgin Mary’s Assumption to Heaven I attended Mass in Wells Cathedral with Geoffrey, who had come to visit. My one other guest was William Wykeham, riding from Winchester in mid-September to celebrate my thirty-fourth birthday with me. He encouraged me to count my many blessings, though he did not in any way pretend I had nothing to fear.

“The king loves you as his life, Alice. If he is able, he will summon you and protect you.”

If he is able
. So Edward, too, was caught in the frightening gyre.

I heeded Wykeham’s advice, using my paternoster beads to count my blessings over and over, interspersed with frightened prayers for the safety of my family and friends, for Edward’s health, for Robert, and for myself.

O
N AN
ordinary autumn afternoon, as Gwen and I were absorbed in undoing my daughter Joan’s latest attempt at embroidery, laughing at the remarkable knots she had achieved—taking care that Joan could not hear our laughter, for she was quite proud to be trusted with a needle—we were surprised by a servant announcing a visitor.

“It is Sir Robert, Dame Alice, Sir Robert Linton.”

I traveled from hilarity to terror in a heartbeat, grateful that I was seated, or I might have lost my balance. Our benefactor had been careful to stay away. I could only think he had come to warn me of my imminent arrest. I crossed myself and dared not look at Gwen, for I knew she must be equally frightened.

At first I did not believe the sincerity of the smile with which Sir Robert greeted me as I joined him in the hall. It took a cup of brandywine to calm me enough that I might absorb his news.

Lancaster had found a way to reverse parliament’s judgments on his father’s proven friends. On January 25 the kingdom would celebrate Edward’s royal jubilee, his fifty years on the throne. In honor of the occasion the king would offer a general pardon, a gesture with a long tradition. Considering the enormous number included in the
pardon—two thousand four hundred people—the list was already being put before parliament to afford them time to implement it.

“Apparently a ‘general’ pardon is not what I had thought. Not all crimes are pardoned, not all forfeits reversed, hence the list,” said Sir Robert. “Your name is prominently featured, however, for the duke says His Grace needs you beside him. As soon as may be.”

I could not believe my good fortune. My prayers had been answered. I was free to join Edward—in fact, Lancaster was searching for me. To that end, and to avoid his discovery of my retreat, Sir Robert had come to escort me to Gaynes.

Gwen lost no time in making the preparations. I would leave Joan and Jane at Gaynes in Mary’s care, and join Edward at Havering.

When I was reunited with my sister we held each other tightly and wept. She had been widowed while I had been in hiding in the west, her husband having succumbed to a summer fever. She and her children had moved to Gaynes to heal in the countryside.

“I was frightened for you,” she told me.

“Hush now, Mary, all will be well.” I forced myself to say the words I needed to believe.

My dear Robert was also there to welcome me. He brought me news of my properties. I had feared more uprisings as at Finningley, but all had been quiet. I was so happy to see him that I forgot decorum and fell into his arms, rejoicing in his warmth and strength. We were a loud and merry group at dinner, and for that one night at Gaynes I could almost pretend that all was well.

It was at best a bittersweet time for me. My daughters remember it as a happy period. They were far too young to understand the crisis we faced.

A
S SOON
as all were settled at Gaynes, Gwen and I departed for Havering.

On a brisk, clear autumn day such as would in the past have drawn him out into the park to ride and hunt, I found Edward nodding by a fire that sucked all the air from his chamber. Despite the heat and the furs tucked round him, the hand lying beside a forgotten mazer of wine was cold and dry. I knelt to him and called his name.

His eyelids fluttered and he muttered nonsense.

“Edward, my beloved, it is Alice.”

“Alice?” Now he opened his eyes and, seeing me, knocked over the
mazer as he struggled to rise. I freed him from the furs and helped him to his feet. So frail, so frail.

We held each other and wept as we swore our everlasting love.

“I shall not leave you again, my love, no matter what they threaten,” I vowed. Alone in my chamber I cursed his sons for their indifferent care.

I learned that Edward had suffered one of his worst spells the previous month, and had since been lethargic and inconsistent in his memory. His balance was so poor that he could not ride. Nor could he hawk, for he was convinced that the birds had decided in a parliament that he deserved death, and meant to attack him. This last, more than anything else, convinced me that I must remain by his side as much as possible, for he had never before suffered such a severe delusion.

In more lucid moments Edward was obsessed with ensuring a comfortable future for me and our eleven-year-old son. He was stubbornly determined to push forward with John’s marriage to Mary Percy and his knighting at the Feast of St. George in April, alongside Prince Richard. I was moved by his ambitions for our son, but expected him to meet with resistance. Once again, Henry Percy surprised me by agreeing that the marriage should be formally celebrated in January. Nor, to my knowledge, did anyone object to John’s being knighted. He was, after all, the king’s son.

For my future comfort Edward urged me to transfer some of my jewels to a trustworthy friend so that they would be safe in case his enemies tried to attack him through me again. He did not know of the cache of jewels I had already entrusted to my brother, nor need he. This scheme made it clear that at least in his mind the pardon was no guarantee of my safety. I could not decide to whom to entrust my remaining jewels—Geoffrey? Robert? Perhaps Princess Joan?

While I was deliberating, I sent for them and was informed that the Duke of Lancaster had already arranged a custodian for them. This was delivered to me as reassuring news, that he had been so moved by his concern for my daughters as to ensure the security of my jewels. I could only pray I was wrong about him.

Edward’s moods left me drained and confused. As he often woke in the night in an agitated state, I fell into a dangerous exhaustion. My only restful nights were on those occasions that his physicians gave him a strong sleeping draft and suggested that I sleep in my own chamber. I did so with gratitude.

I was increasingly anxious about Lancaster’s maneuvers regarding the jewels and all else he seemed to control. Shortly after Martinmas I was privy to what was apparently an ongoing argument with his father about investigating William Wyndsor’s deeds in Ireland.

“I understand you have not yet issued the order for Nicholas Dagworth to represent you at the Irish council. Why do you hesitate, Father?”

“Dagworth?” Edward shook his head. “My mind misgives. Surely he is not the only possibility. I prefer to send someone known to take no side in this issue.”

Lancaster made no attempt to conceal his irritation with his father. “Wyndsor is my man. Do you accuse me of acting against my own man? If Dagworth says that the charges are without weight, all will believe him and the matter will be settled for good.”

“And if he finds the charges just? No.” Edward swept out his arm, upsetting a flagon of wine. As I reached out to catch it, he growled at Lancaster, “You are wrong in this. It is not reasonable that any man’s enemy should be his judge. Dagworth shall not go.”

Though I rejoiced to hear Edward so lucid, I shivered for the cold glare with which his decision was received.

After a subdued Christmas at Havering, which included only Edward’s children and their families and some of his most trusted friends, Henry Percy and his family arrived with John and Mary. For an eleven-year-old, our son was tall and strong, excelling in martial arts, and a particularly gifted horseman. I saw in him what a beautiful young man his father must have been. Yet there was a sulky aspect, too, like his uncle and godfather the duke. I hoped that it was simply his impatience regarding the negotiation for his coming marriage ceremony. He was as immature as most boys of his age, and lacked all interest in such events.

“Do you not like Mary?” I asked when he had complained of the uncomfortable robes he must wear.

“No. Nor she me. She says I smell of horses.”

“You do not like her because she insults you?”

“Is it an insult if it is true? Of
course
I smell of horses. She is proud and dull, and that is also the truth.”

I could not help but laugh. I hoped this outspokenness was a sign of John’s resilience, for as the bastard son of an aged king, he would need it. I had no power over his future, could be of little help to him. I prayed he would not forsake me.

On the day they took their vows, Mary looked lovely and John remarkably elegant. My sister, brother, and John’s wife Agnes all attended, thrilled to be part of such an intimate celebration in Westminster Abbey. The ceremony was brief, with Bishop Houghton of St. David’s, now also Lord Chancellor, officiating. Houghton, a kind, gentle man, had agreed to keep the ceremony short to prevent the guests from seeing too much of the king, for Edward was again having difficulty with his right arm and was in one of his more forgetful phases.

Within a few days all the guests had departed, Mary and John returning to their interrupted lives. We had agreed they were too young to consummate the union as yet. They would set up a household together in four years. Until then Mary would remain with me. Edward had wished them to bide at Havering for a while, but his physicians, Lancaster, and Houghton had all convinced him that was ill advised.

He was also disappointed on being advised not to appear at the opening of parliament. He had looked forward to declaring that two thousand four hundred pardons were to be given—an extraordinary number. But his family and physicians prevailed, impressing upon him the dampening effect one of his spells might have on the glorious proceedings.

Bishop Houghton went on to Westminster without Edward. His opening sermon incorporated the charge to parliament in which he made use of the first public acknowledgment of the king’s illness while assuring them that Edward was almost recovered and would soon return to public life. He urged them to support the general pardon as a token of reconciliation.

As if Houghton’s words had worked a miracle, Edward’s mind cleared within days. He began walking round and round the hall to strengthen his legs, and in early February proceeded downriver by barge to Sheen. He wore a magnificent red cloak embroidered with his arms and tiny fleur-de-lis. It was lined in ermine as was his red escarlatte hat and the purple wool robe beneath. I was determined he should not take a chill. He looked in every aspect a king. As the barge passed Westminster, the parliamentarians assembled on the riverbank to cheer him. I was riding in an enclosed area of the barge, carefully hidden from the crowd but able to see Edward. I rejoiced to see him straighten in his seat and acknowledge the cheers with a regal wave. For a moment I allowed myself to dream that all might yet be well.