The King's Concubine. Anne O'Brien

      His laughter became a low growl. ‘Then if you are so short of gifts, mistress, I must do what I can to remedy it.’

      I considered this. ‘The King does not give gifts to girls of no family.’

      ‘This one does. He gives what he wishes, to whom he wishes. Or at least he gives a palfrey to you, Mistress Alice.’

      ‘I can’t, Sire …’ I was not lacking in good sense. It would be indiscreet. The mare was far too valuable.

      ‘What a prickly creature you are. It is nothing, you know.’

      ‘Not to you.’

      ‘I want you to enjoy her. Will you allow me to do that? If for no other reason than that you serve the Queen well.’

      How could I refuse? When the mare pushed against my shoulder with her soft nose, I fell in love with her, because she was beautiful and she was the King’s gift.

      * * *

      The Queen is ill. She cannot move from her bed and begs me to read to her. When the King visited I stood to curtsey, already closing the book and putting it aside, expecting to be dismissed. His time with his wife was precious. But he waved me on and sat with us until I had finished the tale.

      It was a dolorous one in which the Queen found particular enjoyment. She wept for the tragedy of the ill-fated lovers, Tristan and Isolde. The King stroked her hand, chiding her gently for her foolishness, telling her that his love for her was far greater than that of Tristan for his lady, and that he had no intention of doing anything so spineless as turning his face to the wall to die. Only a sword in the gut would bring him to his knees. And was his dear Philippa intending to cast herself over his body and die too without cause but a broken heart? Were they not, after so many years of marriage, made of sterner stuff than that? For shame!

      It made the Queen laugh through her tears. ‘A foolish tale.’ She gave a watery smile.

      ‘But it was well read. With much feeling,’ Edward observed.

      He touched my shoulder as he left us, the softest of pressures. Did the Queen notice? I thought not, but she dismissed me brusquely, pleading a need for solitude. She covered her face with her hands.

      Her voice stopped me as I reached the door.

      ‘Forgive me, Alice. It is a grievous burden I have given myself, and sometimes it is beyond me to bear it well.’

      I did not understand her.

      * * *

      The King has had his clock placed in a new tower. I stood and watched in awe. His shout of laughter was powerful, a thing of joy, for at last his precious clock was nearly ready. The tower to house it was complete and the pieces of the mechanism were assembled to the Italian craftsman’s finicky satisfaction. Here was the day that it would be set into working order, and the Queen had expressed a desire to witness it. Had Edward not had it made for her, modelled on that of the Abbot of St Albans, with its miraculous shifting panels of sun and stars?

      ‘I can’t,’ Philippa admitted, ‘I really can’t,’ when she could not push her swollen feet into soft shoes. ‘Go and watch for me, Alice. The King needs an audience.’

      ‘Thank God!’ Isabella remarked.

      ‘For what precisely?’ Philippa was peevish. ‘I fail to see any need to thank Him this morning.’

      ‘Because you didn’t ask me to go to look at the monstrosity.’

      ‘Well, I wouldn’t. Alice will enjoy it. Alice can ask the King the right questions, and then tell us all about it. Can’t you?’

      ‘Yes, Majesty,’ I replied.

      ‘But not in great detail,’ Isabella called after me as I left the room. ‘We’re not all fixated with ropes and pulleys and wheels.’

      So I went alone. I was interested in ropes and pulleys and cogs with wooden teeth that locked as they revolved. I wanted to see what the Italian had achieved. Was that all I wanted?

      Ah no!

      I wanted to watch and understand what fascinated Edward when he didn’t have a sword in his hand or a celebration to organise. I wanted to see what beguiled this complex man of action. So I watched the final preparations.

      We were not alone. The King had his audience with or without my presence, the Italian and his assistant as well as a cluster of servants and a handful of men at arms to give the necessary strength. And there was Thomas, who could not be kept away from such a spectacle.

      ‘We need to lift this into position, Sire.’ The Italian gestured, arms flung wide. ‘And then attach the weights and the ropes for the bell.’

      The ropes were apportioned to the men at arms, the instructions issued to hoist the weights for the winding mechanism. Thomas was given the task of watching for the moment all was in place. I was waved ignominiously to one side.

      ‘Pull!’ the Italian bellowed. And they did. ‘Pull!’

      With each repetition, the pieces of the clock rose into position.

      ‘Almost there!’ Thomas capered in excitement.

      ‘Pull!’ ordered the Italian.

      They pulled, and with a creak and a snap one of the ropes broke. The weight to which it was attached crashed down to the floor, sending up a shower of dust and stone chippings. Before I could react, the loose remnants of the rope flew in an arc, like a whiplash, snaking out across the stone paving, to strike my ankles with such force that my feet were taken out from under me.

      I fell in an inelegant heap of skirts and frayed rope and dust.

      ‘Signorina!’ The Italian leapt to my side with horror.

      ‘Alice!’ The King was there too.

      I sat up slowly, breathless from shock and surprise, my ankles sore, as the Italian proceeded to wipe dust from my face, before discreetly arranging my disordered skirts.

      ‘Signorina! A thousand pardons!’

      It all seemed to be happening at a distance: the cloud of dust settling; the soldiers lowering the still unfixed pieces of the clock, now forgotten in the chaos. Thomas staring at me with a mixture of horror and fascination.

      My eyes fixed on the King’s anxious face. ‘Edward …’ I said.

      ‘You are quite safe now.’ He enclosed my hands within his and lifted them to his lips.

      And my senses returned.

      ‘I am not hurt,’ I stated.

      Ignoring this, Edward sent Thomas at a run. ‘Fetch my physician!’

      ‘I am not hurt,’ I repeated.

      ‘I’ll decide whether you are hurt or not,’ Edward snapped back, and then to his Master of Clocks, who still fussed and wrung his hands, ‘See to the mechanism. It’s not your fault, man! I’ll deal with Mistress Alice.’

      Never had I been so aware of his presence, the proud flare of nostrils that gave him a hawkish air even when rank fear was imprinted in his face.

      ‘Can you stand?’ he asked abruptly.

      ‘Yes.’

      Gently, he lifted me and stood me on my feet. To my surprise I staggered and was forced to clutch at his arm—no artifice on my part but a momentary dizziness. Without a second thought Edward swept me up into his arms and carried me away from the dust and debris.

      For the first time in my short existence I was enclosed in the arms of a man. All the feelings I had imagined but never experienced flooded through me. The heat of his body against mine, the steady beat of his heart. The fine grain of his skin, the firmness of his hands holding me close. The pungency of sweat and dust. My throat was dry with an inexplicable need, my palms