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

here too.” He fisted his hands on his hips. “For God’s sake, woman. Get off that animal.”
    I sat where I was. The ground looked far away. “I need help.”
    “Then let Rob…”
    I ignored the snort of amusement from the groom, who had made no attempt to aid me.
    “I suppose, sir, I am too far below you to expect you to help me to dismount.” I was all demure insouciance, except for the tilt of my chin.
    “Yes. You are.” But Wykeham’s mouth twitched as he stomped back to my side. “And I suspect you are a baggage! Where did you learn that, enclosed in a nunnery?”
    “I have been married,” I informed him, hinting nothing of its brevity or its lack.
    “Then that must account for it.”
    I did not think so. I think my wit—its immediacy—had always been there, hidden away until I had the freedom to be myself. With a hand to my arm, he helped me to slide from the animal’s broad rump as adeptly as I could manage.
    “Thank you, sir.” I held on tight for a moment as my muscles quivered in protest.
    “I am at your disposal. Tell me when you can stand without falling over!”
    I loosed my grip with a pert smile for the irony.
    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 a pleasant place to be, the rafters above my head merging into deep shadowsstriped with soft bars of sunlight, like the coat of a tabby cat. Servants moved quietly, purposefully replacing the candles in 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 color, mirrored in the tiles beneath my feet. A maidservant crossed the room, busy with a tray of cups and a flagon, with a brief curtsy 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 neighboring 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 tire-woman, one who could read and write, but, remembering Lady Marian, I could hardly claim the breeding for it. So why, in the name of the Blessed Virgin, was I here? Countess Joan had been cruelly quick to reject my offered services: The Queen would hardly stand in need of my meager talents.
    “This way…” Wykeham was striding ahead. “Don’t stand daydreaming!”
    Behind us in the doorway a commotion erupted, enough to make my nerves jump and skitter like rats in a trap. Both Wykeham and I, and everyone in the Hall, turned to look.
    A man had entered to stand under the door arch. He was illuminated, silhouetted, by the low rays of the afternoon sun so that it was impossible to see his features, only his stature and bearing. Tall, was my first impression, with the build of a soldier, a man of action. Around his feet pushed and jostled a pack 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 the power of a direct beam, so that he gleamed with a corona of light around his head and shoulders like one of the saints in the glazed windows of the Abbey. Crowned with gold. I simply stared.
    Then, as he took 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 myskirts. I had no knowledge of such boisterous animals and automatically stepped back, wary of sharp teeth and formidable bodies. Oblivious to my discomfort, Wykeham bowed whilst I was engaged in pushing aside an inquisitive alaunt.
    Wykeham cleared his throat in