The King's Concubine. Anne O'Brien

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      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.’

      Within minutes I was bundled into a coarsely woven cloak and hoisted onto the broad rump of the groom’s mare, as if I were a cord of firewood.

      ‘Hold tight, mistress,’ growled the man called Rob.

      I clutched the sides of his leather jerkin as the animal stamped and sidled. The ground seemed far away and my balance was awry. At a signal from the man who had so smoothly rearranged my future, the escort fell in and we rode through the streets of the town and into the open country without a further word.

      ‘Sir?’ I addressed the back of the courier, who was now riding a little way ahead of me. No reply, so I raised my voice. ‘Sir? Where are we going?’

      He did not turn his head. He might have addressed me as mistress, but it seemed I was not worthy of any further respect. ‘To Havering-atte-Bower.’

      It meant nothing to me. ‘Why?’

      ‘The Queen has sent for you.’

      I could not believe it. What had caused her to remember me, when I had done nothing but pick up her rosary? Nevertheless, the thrill of unknown adventure placed a cold hand on my nape and I shuddered. ‘Is Havering-atte-Bower, then, a royal palace?’ I asked.

      The man slowed his horse and gestured the groom to pull alongside. On a level, he reined in his mount, allowing me to read his unspoken thoughts as clear as figures in a ledger. My kirtle and overgown bore the sticky remnants of the fallen fruit in St Mary’s orchard, my hair was bound up in a length of coarse cloth, the borrowed cloak was far beyond respectability. Kicking his mount into a walk, we plodded on side by side as he considered what he thought of me, and what he would deign to tell me.

      ‘Why would the Queen send for me?’ I asked.

      ‘I have no idea. Her Majesty will doubtless tell you.’

      He shortened his reins as if to push on with more speed, our conversation finished. But I wanted more.

      ‘Who are you, sir?’

      He gave no reply, through choice, I decided, rather than because he had not heard me, so I took the time to appraise him. Nothing out of the way. He was neither young nor old, with regular features, a little stern, a little austere. He was certainly used to command but I thought he was not a soldier. Neither was he the courier I had first thought him. He had too much authority for that. His eyes were a mix of green and brown, sharp and bright, like those of a squirrel. I thought him rather pompous for a man who could not be considered old. So we would ride to Havering-atte-Bower in total silence, would we? I thought not. I held tight to Rob’s tunic and leaned toward my reluctant companion.

      ‘I have much to learn, sir,’ I began. ‘How far to Havering-atte-Bower?’

      ‘About two hours. Three if you don’t get a move on.’

      I ignored the jibe. ‘Time enough, then. You could help me. You could tell me some of the things I don’t know.’

      ‘Such as?’

      ‘You could tell me how to behave when we arrive,’ I suggested solemnly, at the same time widening my eyes in innocent enquiry. And I saw him waver. ‘And how do I address you, sir?’

      ‘I am William de Wykeham. And you, I suspect, are no wiser.’

      I smiled deliberately. Winsomely, all demure insouciance, except for the tilt of my chin. How best to seduce information from a man than get him to talk of what was important to him? I had learnt that from both Janyn and Greseley. Talk about money and rates of interest and they would eat out of your hand. ‘I am no wiser yet,’ I replied. ‘But I will be if you will be my informant. What do I call you? What do you do?’

      ‘Wykeham will do. I serve His Majesty. And occasionally Her Majesty, Queen Philippa.’ And I saw the pride in him. ‘I am destined for the church—and to build palaces.’

      ‘Oh.’ It seemed a laudable occupation. ‘Have you built many?’

      And that was it. The door opened wide. For the rest of the journey Wykeham recounted to me his ambitions and achievements. Turrets and arches, buttresses and pillars. Curtain walls and superior heating methods. Holy Virgin! He was as dull as a meatless meal in Lent, as incapable of luring a nun from her vows as Janyn Perrers or Greseley. Perhaps all men in essence were as dry as dust. When I wanted to hear the minutiae of life in a royal palace, the food, the fashions, the important personages, all I got was a description of the new tower at Windsor, but I made no effort to deter him. Were all men so easy to encourage into conversation? Far easier than women, I thought. A smile, a question, an appeal to their achievements, their pride. I learnt very little about life at Havering during the journey, but a great deal about castle building. And then we were approaching an impressive array of towers, half-hidden in the trees.

      ‘Your journey is at an end, Mistress Alice. And I forgot …’ Transferring his reins into one hand, he fished in his saddlebag. ‘Her Majesty sent you this. She thought you might like it—to give you God’s comfort on the journey.’ He dropped the rosary into my hand. ‘Not that СКАЧАТЬ