The King's Concubine. Anne O'Brien

understand.’ And I felt that she did, despite the distance between us in years and rank. ‘How sad. You remind me of my own daughters. Margaret and Mary. Both dead of the plague September last.’

      Isabella sighed heavily. ‘Maman …!’ How could I remind anyone of a Princess of the Blood?

      ‘You are of a similar age,’ she explained, as if I had spoken my doubt. ‘You are young to be a widow. Would you seek to wed again?’

      ‘Who would have me? I have no dowry,’ I stated with little attempt to hide my dissatisfaction. ‘All I can offer is …’ I closed my mouth.

      ‘What can you offer?’ the Queen asked as if she were genuinely interested.

      I considered the sum of my talents. ‘I can read and write and figure, Majesty.’ Since someone actually showed an interest, there was no stopping me. ‘I can read French and Latin. I can keep accounts.’ Ingenuously, I was carried away with my achievements.

      ‘So much …’ I had made her smile again. ‘And how did you learn to keep accounts?’

      ‘Janyn Perrers. A moneylender. He taught me.’

      ‘And did you enjoy it? So tedious a task?’

      ‘Yes. I understood what I saw.’

      ‘You have a keen mind, Alice of the Accounts,’ was all she said. Perhaps I amused her. I wished I had not boasted of my hard-won skills. She took hold of one of my hands, to my embarrassment running her fingers over the evidence of hard digging in the heavy soil. My nails were cracked, the skin broken and the aroma of onions was keen, but she made no comment. ‘If you could choose your future path, Alice, what would it be?’

      I replied without hesitation, thinking of Greseley, of the hopes that kept me from despair in the dark hours of the night. ‘I would have my own house. I would buy land and property. I would be dependent on no one.’

      ‘An unlikely ambition!’ Isabella’s remark interrupted, redolent of ridicule.

      ‘But a commendable one for all that.’ The Queen’s voice trembled. Isabella was instantly beside her. ‘Yes. I will rest now. Today is not a good day.’ She allowed her daughter to help her to her feet and moved slowly toward the bedchamber. Then she stopped and despite the discomfort looked back at me.

      ‘Alice, keep the rosary. It was a gift to me from the King when I gave birth to Edward, our first son.’ She must have read astonishment on my face. ‘It is not very valuable. He had little money to spend on fripperies in those days. I would like you to keep it as a memento of the day when you rescued the Queen from falling in public!’

      The rosary. It was still gripped in one hand, the gold-enamelled beads of the Aves clutched so tight that they left impressions in my palm. The pearls that marked the Paternosters and Glorias were warm and so smooth. The Queen would give this to me? A gift from her husband? I coveted it—who would not? I wanted it for my own.

      ‘No …’ I said. I could not. I was not courteous, but I knew what would happen if I kept it. ‘We are not allowed possessions. We take a vow of poverty.’ I tried to explain my refusal, knowing how crude it must seem.

      ‘Not even a gift from a grateful Queen?’

      ‘It would not be thought suitable.’

      ‘And you would not be allowed to keep it?’

      ‘No, Majesty.’

      ‘No. I was thoughtless to offer it.’ The tormenting pain gripped her again and I was forgotten. ‘By the Virgin, I am tried beyond endurance today—take me to my bed, Isabella.’

      Isabella manoeuvred the Queen through the doorway into the bedchamber, and I was left alone. Before I could change my mind I placed the rosary on the prie dieu and backed out of the room until I was standing outside the door. Quietly I closed it, leaning against it. I had refused a gift from a Queen. But what would be the good in my accepting what I would not be allowed to keep? The rosary, if I had it, would fall into the hands of Mother Abbess. I could see it in my mind’s eye attached to her silver-decorated girdle. As I could imagine my mantle gracing the shoulders of Signora Damiata.

      If ever I accepted anything of value in my life, I must be certain it remained mine.

      Queen Philippa and her sharp-tongued daughter did not stay beyond the night. As soon as the service of Prime was sung next morning, they made ready to depart, the Queen helped into her well-cushioned travelling litter by Sister Margery, who had made up a draught of tender ash leaves distilled in wine against the agony of a bone-shaking journey. I knew what was in it. Had I not helped to make the infusion?

      ‘Her Majesty suffers from dropsy,’ Sister Margery had pronounced with certainty. ‘I have seen it before. It is a terrible affliction. She will feel the effect of every rut and stumble.’

      Sister Margery instructed Lady Isabella: too much would cripple the digestion; too little and the pain would remain intense. And here was a little pot of mutton fat pounded with vervain root. Smoothed on the swollen flesh of hands and feet, it would bring relief. I had done the work but it was not I who held the flask and offered the little pot. It was not I who received the Queen’s thanks. I was not even there. I heard the departure from the cellar where I was engaged in counting hams and barrels of ale.

      Take me with you. Let me serve you.

      A silent plea that she did not hear.

      Why would she remember me? It was an occasion of moment in my life, it had no bearing on what a Queen might remember. She would have forgotten about me within the quarter-hour of my returning the rosary. But I did not forget Queen Philippa. She had the loving kindness in her homely face of the mother that I had never known.

      I wondered what Greseley was doing, and if I would ever see him again. If he was taking care of the houses in Gracechurch Street and the little manor in West Peckham. Surely he could raise enough money from them for my own needs.

      I prayed even more fervently over the hams than I had over the cabbages that it would be soon before my hopes died.

      The hams and the cabbages were eaten, one with more relish than the other, the ale drunk and replaced by an inferior brew that brought down the ire of Mother Sybil on the brewer. Such tedious, unimportant events that barely ruffled my existence as high summer came and went, the early blossom on the gnarled trees in the orchard long gone. My patience ebbed and flowed, reaching painful depths in the nights when the silence closed around me like a shroud.

      And then! Mother Abbess was in conversation with a tall, well-dressed man, perhaps a courier, to judge from his riding gear of fine wool and leather, accompanied by an elderly thick-set groom who held the reins of a fine gelding, and a small but well-armed escort, sword and bow very evident.

      I took it all in at a glance. Barely had I considered why I had been summoned when the courier turned a penetrating stare toward me.

      ‘You are Alice?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’ Conscious of my dishevelled state and the mud on my shoes—I had been kneeling beneath the low branches in the orchard to collect the fallen plums and damsons when I had been fetched—I made a desultory attempt to beat soil and grass from my skirts. The shoes were beyond remedy.

      ‘You are to go with me, mistress.’ He looked me up and down and from the narrowing of his eyes found me wanting. ‘You will need a cloak.’ And to the Abbess, ‘Provide one for her, if you please.’

      I looked to Abbess Sybil for instruction. Mother Abbess lifted a shoulder as if denying any complicity in what had been arranged. Had my labours been bought again? Holy Virgin! Not another marriage. The man continued to address me, impervious and uninformative.

      ‘Can you ride, mistress?’

      ‘No, sir.’

      He motioned to the groom. ‘She’ll ride pillion behind you, Rob. She’s no weight to speak of.’