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

warning.
    “What is it?” I asked.
    In reply he 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 and took a breath to remonstrate when a voice of command, a strikingly beautiful one, 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 accepted the wisdom of curtsying. The newcomer looked to me like a huntsman who had strayed into the Hall after a day’s exercise to find a cup of ale or a heel of bread. 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? Why did he 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, godlike figure he was. A man of some age and experience, but he wore the years lightly. He was 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 wastanned 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 removing. And what a 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 jeweled 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 worth 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 bathhouse 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 was of less importance than the cold-blooded killer whose feathers he was smoothing with casual affection.
    “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.”
    The King nodded. “Yes, yes. I’d forgotten. It gives her comfort, and—before God!—precious little does.” 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 in grave acknowledgment, even though he thought I was a serving wench. His gaze traveled over my face in