The King's Concubine. Anne O'Brien

my arm.

      ‘Thank you, sir.’ I held on tight for a moment as my muscles quivered in protest.

      ‘I am at your disposal,’ he replied wryly. ‘Tell me when you can stand without falling over.’

      Wykeham led the way up the shallow flight of steps, pushing open the door and stepping into the Great Hall. It was an echoing space, tables and trestles cleared away for the day except for the solid board on the dais at the far end. Cool after the heat of the sun, it was pleasant just to be there, the rafters above my head merging into deep shadows striped with soft bars of sunlight. Like the coat of a tabby cat. Servants moved quietly, replacing the wall sconces. A burst of laughter came from behind the screens at the far end that closed off the entrance to the kitchens. The tapestries on the walls glowed with rich colour, mirrored in the tiling beneath my feet.

      I looked round in stark admiration. Was this where the Countess of Kent lived, that arrogant being who had left such an indelible impression on my younger self? I glanced at the shadows as if I might see her, watching me, judging me, before I chided myself for my foolishness. If the Countess had fulfilled her ambitions, she would be seated in the opulent splendour of the Queen’s private apartments, sipping wine, while a servant brushed her magnificent hair. If the serving woman’s comb happened to catch and drag on a tangle, the Countess would slap her without compunction.

      A movement caught my interest. A maidservant crossed the room, busy with a tray of cups and a flagon, with a brief curtsey in Wykeham’s direction. My eye followed her. Was this, then, to be my destiny? To work in the kitchens of the royal palace? But why? Did the Queen not have enough servants? If she needed more, would her steward not find enough willing girls from the neighbouring villages? I could not see why she would bring me all the way from the Abbey to be a serving wench. Perhaps she needed a tirewoman, one who could read and write, but I hardly had the breeding for it. So why, in the name of the Blessed Virgin, was I here? The Queen would hardly stand in need of my meagre talents.

      ‘This way.’ Wykeham was striding ahead.

      Behind us in the doorway a commotion erupted. Wykeham and I, and everyone in the Hall, turned to look. A man had entered to stand under the door arch. He was silhouetted by the low rays of the afternoon sun so that it was impossible to see his features, only his stature and bearing. Tall, with the build of a soldier, a man of action. Around his feet pushed and jostled a parcel of hounds and alaunts. On his gauntleted wrist rode a hooded goshawk. As the hawk shook its pinions, the man moved forward a step, into a direct sunbeam, so that he gleamed with a corona of light around head and shoulders, like one of the saints in the glazed windows of the Abbey. Crowned with gold.

      Then, with another step, the moment passed. He was enclosed in soft shadow, an ordinary man again. And I was distracted when the hounds bounded forward, circling the Hall, sniffing at my skirts. Having no knowledge of such boisterous animals, I stepped back, wary of slavering mouths and formidable bodies. Wykeham bowed whilst I was engaged in pushing aside an inquisitive alaunt.

      Wykeham cleared his throat.

      ‘What is it?’ I asked.

      In reply Wykeham took hold of the ancient cloak that still enveloped me from chin to toe and twitched it off, letting it fall to the floor. I stiffened at this presumptuous action, took breath to remonstrate, when a voice, a strikingly beautiful voice, cut across the width of the Hall.

      ‘Wykeham, by God! Where’ve you been? Why are you always impossible to find, man?’

      It was a clear-timbred voice, filling the space from walls to rafters. And striding toward us was the owner. The man with the raptor.

      Wykeham bowed again, with what could have been construed as a scowl in my direction, so I curtseyed. The newcomer looked to me like a huntsman strayed into the Hall after a day’s exercise, looking to find a cup of ale or a heel of bread as he covered the ground with long loping strides, as lithe as the hound at his side.

      And then he was standing within a few feet of me.

      ‘Sire!’ Wykeham bowed once more.

      The King!

      I sank to the floor, holding my skirts, my flushed face hidden. How naive I was. But how was I to know? He did not dress like a king. Then I looked up and saw him not a score of feet distant, and knew that he did not need clothing and jewels to proclaim his superiority. What a miraculous, god-like figure he was. A man of some age and experience, but he wore the years lightly. Handsome without doubt with a broad brow and a fine blade of a nose complemented by luxurious flaxen hair that shone as bright as silver. Here was no dry-as-dust dullard. The King shone like a diamond amongst worthless dross.

      ‘It’s the water supply!’ the King announced.

      ‘Yes, Sire. I have it in hand,’ Wykeham replied calmly.

      ‘The Queen needs heated water.’

      The King’s complexion might once have been fair but his skin was tanned and seamed from an outdoor life in sun and cold. What a remarkable face he was blessed with, with blue eyes as keen as those of the raptor on his fist, whose hood he was in the process of removing. And what fluidity and grace there was about his movements as he unclipped his cloak, one-handed, swung it from his shoulder and threw it to a page who had followed him across the Hall. How had I not known that this was King Edward? At his belt was a knife in a jewelled scabbard, in his hat a ruby brooch pinning a peacock feather into jaunty place. Even without the glitter of gems, I should have known. He had a presence, the habit of command, of demanding unquestioning obedience.

      So this was Queen Philippa’s magnificent husband. I was dazzled.

      I stood, my heart beating fast, aware of nothing but my own unfortunate apparel, the heap of the disreputable mantle at my feet. But the King was not looking at me. Was I not more poorly clad than any of the servants I had seen in the palace? He would think—if he thought at all—that I was a beggar come to receive alms from the palace kitchens. Even the raptor eyed me as if I might be vermin and worth the eating.

      The King swept his arm out in a grand gesture. ‘Out! All of you!’ The dogs obediently vanished through the door in a rush of excitement. ‘Will—I’ve been looking at the site for the bath house you proposed.’ He was close enough to clip Wykeham in an affectionate manner on his shoulder. ‘Where’ve you been?’

      I might as well not have been there.

      ‘I’ve been to St Mary’s at Barking, Sire.’ Wykeham smiled.

      ‘Barking? Why in God’s name?’

      ‘Business for the Queen, Sire. A new chantry for the two dead Princesses.’

      The King nodded. ‘Yes, yes. I’d forgotten. It gives her comfort and—before God!—precious little does.’ And at last he cast a cursory eye over me. ‘WhO’s this? Someone I employ?’ Removing the beaver hat with its brooch and feather, he inclined his head with grave courtesy, even though he thought I was a serving wench. His gaze travelled over my face in a cursory manner. I made another belated curtsey. The King tilted his chin at Wykeham, having made some judgement on me. ‘St Mary’s, you said. Have you helped one of the sisters to escape, Will?’

      Wykeham smiled dryly. ‘The Queen sent for her.’

      Those sharp blue eyes returned. ‘One of her waifs and strays perhaps. To be rescued for her own good. What’s your name, girl?’

      ‘Alice, Sire.’

      ‘Glad to escape?’

      ‘Yes, Sire.’ It was heartfelt, and must have sounded it.

      And Edward laughed, a sound of great joy that made me smile too. ‘So would I be. Serving God’s all very well, but not every hour of every day. Do you have talents?’ He frowned at me as if he could not imagine it. ‘Play a lute?’ I shook my head. ‘Sing? My wife likes music.’

      ‘No, Sire.’

      ‘Well, I suppose she has her reasons.’ He was already losing interest, turning away. ‘And if