The King's Concubine. Anne O'Brien

on the ground, covered with leaf mould and twigs, beating the damp earth from my skirts, I raged in misery. My crispinettes and hood had become detached, the hunt had disappeared into the distance. So had my despicable mount. It would be a long walk home.

      ‘A damsel in distress, by God!’

      I had not registered the beat of hooves on the soft ground under the trees. I looked up to see two horses bearing down on me at speed, one large and threatening, the other small and wiry.

      ‘Mistress Alice!’ The King reined in, his stallion dancing within feet of me. ‘Are you well down there?’

      ‘No, I am not.’ I was not as polite as I should have been.

      ‘Who suggested you ride that brute that thundered past us?’

      ‘It was the Lady Isabella. Then the misbegotten bag of bones deposited me here … I should never have come. I detest horses.’

      ‘So why did you?’

      I wasn’t altogether sure, except that it was expected of me. It was the one joy in life remaining to the Queen when she was in health. The King swung down, threw his reins to the lad on the pony, and approached on foot. I raised a hand to shield my eyes from the sun where it glimmered through the new leaves.

      ‘Thomas—go and fetch the lady’s ride,’ he ordered.

      Thomas, the King’s youngest son, abandoned the stallion and rode off like the wind on the pony. The King offered his hand.

      ‘I can get to my feet alone, Sire.’ Ungracious, I knew, but my humiliation was strong.

      ‘I’ve no doubt, lady. Humour me.’

      His eyes might be bright with amusement but his order was peremptory and not to be disobeyed. I held out my hand, and with a firm tug I was pulled to my feet, whereupon the King began to dislodge the debris from my skirts with long strokes of the flat of his hand. Shame coloured my cheeks.

      ‘Indeed you should not, Sire!’

      ‘I should indeed. You need to pin up your hair.’

      ‘I can’t. There’s not enough to pin up and I need help to make it look respectable.’

      ‘Then let me.’

      ‘No, Sire!’ To have the King pin up my hair? I would as soon ask Isabella to scrub my back.

      He sighed. ‘You must allow me, mistress, as a man of chivalry, to set your appearance to rights.’

      And tucking my ill-used crispinettes into his belt he proceeded with astonishingly deft fingers to re-pin my simple hood, as if he were tying the jesses of his favourite goshawk. I stood still under his ministrations, barely breathing. The King stepped back and surveyed me.

      ‘Passable. I’ve not lost my touch in all these years.’ He cocked an ear to listen, and nodded his head. ‘And now, lady, you’ll have to get back on.’

      He was laughing at me. ‘I don’t wish to.’

      ‘You will, unless you intend to walk home.’ Thomas had returned with my recalcitrant mount and before I could make any more fuss, I was boosted back into the saddle. For a moment, as he tightened my girths, the King looked up into my face, then abruptly stepped back.

      ‘There you are, Mistress Alice. Hold tight!’ A slap of the King’s hand against the horse’s wide rump set me in motion. ‘Look after her, Thomas. The Queen will never forgive you if you allow her to fall into a blackberry thicket.’ A pause, and the words followed me. ‘And neither will I.’

      And Thomas did. He was only seven years old and more skilled at riding than I would ever be. But it was the King’s deft hands I remembered.

      The King celebrates his fiftieth year with a great tournament and jousting. Magnificent! The King was superlative in his new armour. I could not find words, burnished as he was by the sun, sword and armour striking fire as his arm rose and fell, the plumes on his helmet nodding imperiously. And yet I feared for him, my loins liquid and cold with fear. I could not look away, but when blood glistened on his vambrace, dripping from his fingers, I closed my eyes.

      No need of course. His energy always prodigious, he was touched with magic that day. Fighting in the mêlée with all the dash and finesse of a hero of the old tales, he had the grace at the end to heap praise on those whom he defeated.

      Afterwards, when the combatants gathered in the banter much loved by men, the Queen’s ladies threw flowers to the knight of their choice. I had no one. Neither did I care, for there was only one to fill my vision, whether in the lists or in the vicious cut and thrust of personal combat. And I was audacious enough to fling a rosebud when he approached the gallery in which we women sat with the Queen. He had removed his helm. He was so close to me, his face pale and drawn in the aftermath of his efforts, that I could detect the smear of blood on his cheek where he had wiped at the dust with his gauntlet. I was spellbound, so much so that the flower I flung ineptly struck the cheek of the King’s stallion—a soft blow, but the high-blooded destrier instantly reared in the manner of its kind.

      ‘Sweet Jesu!’ Startled, the King dropped his helm, tightening his reins as he fought to bring the animal back under control.

      ‘Have you no sense?’ Isabella snapped.

      I thought better of replying and steeled myself for the King’s reproof. Without a word he snapped his fingers to his page to pick up the helm and the trampled flower. I looked at him in fear.

      ‘My thanks, lady.’

      He bowed his head solemnly to me as he tucked the crumpled petals into the gorget at his throat. My belly clenched, my face flamed to my hairline. Proud, haughty, confident, he was the King of England yet he would treat me with respect when I had almost unhorsed him.

      ‘Our kitchen maid cannot yet be relied upon to act decorously in public!’ Isabella remarked, setting up a chorus of laughter.

      But the King did not sneer. Urging his horse closer to the gilded canvas, the fire dying from his eyes as the energy of battle receded, he stretched out his hand, palm up.

      ‘Mistress Alice, if you would honour me.’

      And I placed mine there. The King kissed my fingers.

      ‘The rose was a fine gesture, if a little wayward. My horse and I both thank you, Mistress Alice.’

      There was the rustle of appreciative laughter, no longer at my expense. I felt the heat of his kiss against my skin, hotter than the beat of blood in my cheeks.

      I am learning to dance. ‘Holy Virgin!’ I misstepped the insistent beat of the tabor and shawm for the twentieth time. How could I excel at tallying coins, yet be unable to count the steps in a simple processional dance? The King’s hand tightened to give me balance as I lurched. He was a better dancer than I. It would be hard to be worse.

      ‘You are allowed to look at me, Mistress Alice,’ he announced when we came together again.

      ‘If I do, I shall fall over my feet, Sire, or yours. I’ll cripple you before the night is out.’

      ‘I’ll lead you in the right steps.’ I must have looked askance. ‘Do you not trust me, Alice?’

      He had called me by my name, without formality. I looked up, to find his eyes quizzical on my face, and I missed the next simple movement.

      ‘I dare not,’ I managed.

      ‘You would refuse your King?’ He was amused again.

      ‘I would when it would be to his benefit.’

      ‘Then we must do our poor best, sweet Alice, and count the broken toes at the end of the evening.’

      Sweet Alice? Was he flirting with me? But no. That was not possible. I exasperated him more than I entertained him.

      ‘By God, Mistress Alice. You did not lie,’ he stated ruefully as the