The King’s Concubine: A Novel of Alice Perrers by Anne O'Brien

incapable of luring a nun from her vows as Janyn Perrers or Greseley. Perhaps all men in essence were as dry as dust. What I wanted to hear of was the minutiae of life in a royal palace, the food, the fashions, the important personages, and all I got was a description of the new tower at Windsor. Still, 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, was all it took. I learned very little about life at Havering, but much about castle building. And then, the two hours passing rapidly enough, we were approaching an impressive array of towers, half-hidden in the trees.
    “Your journey is at an end, Mistress Alice. And I had forgot.…” Transferring his reins into one hand, Wykeham fished into 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 I think you need it. You can talk more than any woman I know.…”
    I was instantly torn between amazement at the gift of the rosary and the unfairness of the accusation; the unfairness won.
    “You’ve done more talking than I have!”
    “Nonsense!”
    “Stop fussing, woman!” Rob gave a rough growl. “You’re as fret as a flea on a warm dog!”
    I laughed. “I ache!”
    “Your arse’ll recover soon enough. My sides are stripped raw with your clutchings!”
    Even Wykeham laughed. “And I expect you’re thirsty.” A flask was found in his saddlebag and he handed it over. The wine, too warm for pleasure but of a quality I had never drunk before, even better than Janyn’s, eased my suddenly dry throat. I was at the end of my journey, and what awaited me remained a mystery.
    “Why would she send me something so precious?” I held the rosary up so that the sun caught the beads, turning them into a rainbow of iridescence.
    My companion surveyed me, from my cloth-bound hair to my mud-smeared hem, as if it were far beyond his comprehension too. “I really have no idea.”
    Nor did I.

Chapter Four
    H avering-atte-Bower. I knew nothing of royal palaces in those days when I arrived in Wykeham’s dusty wake. Nor was the grandeur of the place my first priority. Every muscle in my body groaned at its ill usage. We could not come to a halt fast enough for me; all I wanted was to slide down from that lumbering creature and set my feet on solid ground. But once we were in the courtyard at Havering, I simply sat and stared.
    “Are you going to dismount today, mistress?” Wykeham’s tone was lacking in compassion. “What’s wrong with you?” He was already dismounted and halfway up the steps to the huge iron-studded door.
    “I’ve never seen…” He wasn’t listening, so I closed my mouth.
    I have never seen anything so magnificent .
    The palace was strangely welcoming, owning a seductive charm that St. Mary’s with its gray-stone austerity lacked. It seemed vast to me, though I was to learn that for a royal palace it was small and intimate. The stonework of the building glowed in the afternoon sunshine, a haphazard arrangement of rooms and apartments, the arches of a chapel to the right, the bulk of the original Great Hall to my left, then further outbuildings, sprawling in all directions from the courtyard. Roofs and walls jutted at strange angles as the whim had taken the builders over the years. And if that were not enough, the whole palacewas hemmed about by pasture and lightly wooded stretches like a length of green velvet wrapped ’round a precious jewel.
    It filled me with awe.
    “It’s beautiful!”
    My voice must have carried. “It’ll do, for now,” Wykeham growled. “The King’s grandfather built it—the first Edward. The Queen likes it—that’s the main thing—it’s her manor. It will be better when I’ve had my hands on it. I’ve a mind to put in new kitchens now that the King has his household