The King's Concubine

‘My, my. What an addition to my kitchen.’ Master Humphrey gripped his belt and made a mocking little bow. He did not believe half of what I said.

‘I can keep an inventory of your food stuffs.’ I was not going to shut up unless he ordered me to. ‘I can tally your books and accounts.’ If I was condemned to work here, I would make a place for myself. Until better times.

‘A miracle, by the Holy Virgin.’ The mockery went up by a notch. ‘What is such a gifted mistress of all crafts doing in my kitchen?’ The laughter at my expense expanded too. ‘Let’s start with this for now.’

I was put to work raking the hot ashes from the ovens and scouring the fat-encrusted baking trays. No different from the Abbey or the Perrers’s household at all.

But it was different, and I relished it. Here was life at its most coarse and vivid, not a mean existence ruled by silence and obedience. This was no living death. Not that I enjoyed the work—it was hard and relentless and punishing under the eye of Master Humphrey and Sir Joscelyn—but here was no dour disapproval or use of a switch if I sullied the Rule of Saint Benedict. Or caught Damiata’s caustic eye. Everyone had something to say about every event or rumour that touched on Master Humphrey’s kitchen. I swear he could discuss the state of the realm as well as any great lord while slitting the gizzard of a peacock. It was a different world. I was now the owner of a straw pallet in a cramped attic room with two of the maids who strained the milk and made the rounds of cheese in the dairy. I was given a blanket, a new shift and kirtle—new to me at any event—a length of cloth to wrap round my hair and a pair of rough shoes.

Better than a lay sister at St Mary’s? By the Virgin, it was!

I listened as I toiled. The scullions gossiped from morn till night, covering the whole range of the royal family. The Queen was ill, the King protective. The King was well past the days of his much-lauded victory on the battlefield of Crécy against the bloody French, but still a man to be admired. Whilst Isabella, a madam, refusing every sensible marriage put to her. The King should have taken a whip to her sides! As for the Countess of Kent—my ears instantly pricked up—who had married the Prince and would one day be Queen, well, she was little better than a whore, and an ill-mannered one at that when it suited her. Thank God she was in Aquitaine with her long-suffering husband. Unaware of my interest, the scurrilous gossip continued.

Gascony and Aquitaine, our possessions across the channel, were in revolt. Ireland was simmering like a pot of soup. Now the buildings of the man Wykeham! Water directed to the kitchens to run direct from a spigot into a bowl at Westminster! May it come to Havering soon, pray God.

Meanwhile I was sent to haul water from the well twenty times a day. Master Humphrey had no need for me to read or tally. I swept and scoured and chopped, burned my hands, singed my hair and emptied chamber pots. I lifted and carried and swept up. And I worked even harder to keep the lascivious scullions and pot boys at a distance. I learned fast. By God, I did!

Sim. The biggest lout of them all with his fair hair and leering smile.

I did not need any warning. I had seen Sim’s version of romantic seduction when he trapped one of the serving wenches against the door of the woodstore. It had not been enjoyment on her face as he had grunted and laboured, his hose around his ankles. I did not want his greasy hands with their filthy nails on me. Or any other part of his body. The stamp of a foot on an unprotected instep, a sharp elbow to a gut kept the human vermin at bay for the most part. Unfortunately it was easy for Sim and his crowd to stalk me in the pantry or the cellar. If his arm clipped my waist once, it did so a dozen times within the first week.

‘How about a kiss, Alice?’ he wheedled, his foul breath hot against my neck.

I punched his chest with my fist, and not lightly. ‘You’ll get no kiss from me!’

‘Who else will kiss you?’ The usual chorus of appreciation from the crude, grinning mouths.

‘Not you!’

‘You’re an ugly bitch, but you’re better than a beef carcass.’

‘You’re not. I’d sooner kiss a carp from the pond. Now back off——and take your gargoyles with you.’ I had discovered a talent for wordplay and a sharp tongue and used it indiscriminately, along with my elbows.

‘You’ll not get better than me.’ He ground his groin, fierce with arousal, against my hip.

My knee slamming between his legs loosened his hold well enough. ‘Keep your hands to yourself! Or I’ll take Master Humphrey’s boning knife to your balls and we’ll roast them for supper with garlic and rosemary!’

I was not unhappy. But I was sorry not to be pretty, and that my talents were not used. How much skill did it take to empty the chamber pots onto the midden? And as I toiled, dipping coarse wicks in foul-smelling tallow to make candles for use in the kitchens and storerooms, all noise and bustle swirling around me, I allowed myself to step back into the days of my early novitiate. I allowed the Countess of Kent—indeed I invited her—to step imperiously into my mind. She might be in Aquitaine, but for those moments she lived again in the sweaty kitchen of Havering-atte-Bower.

How had such a lowly creature as I come to be noticed by so high-born a woman? What a spectacle she had provided for me, little more than a child that I had been. A travelling litter had swayed to a halt, marvellous with swags and gilded leather curtains and the softest of soft cushions, pulled by a team of six gleaming horses. Minions and outriders had filled the space. And so much luggage in an accompanying wagon to be unloaded. I had never seen such wealth. As I had watched, jewelled fingers had emerged and the curtains twitched back in a grand gesture.

Blessed Virgin! The sight had stopped my breath as a lady stepped from the palanquin, shaking out her silk damask skirts—a hint of deep patterned blue, of silver thread and luxuriant fur—and smoothing the folds of her mantle, the jewels on her fingers afire with a rainbow of light. She was not a young woman, but neither was she old, and she was breathtakingly beautiful. I could see nothing of her figure, shrouded as she was in the heavy cloak despite the warmth of the summer day, or of her hair, hidden beneath a crispinette and black veil, but I could see her face. It was a perfect oval of fair skin, and she was lovely. Her eyes, framed by the fine linen and undulating silk, were large and lustrous, the colour of new beech leaves.

This was Countess Joan of Kent, the ill-mannered whore of kitchen gossip.

From one of the wagons bounded a trio of little dogs that yapped and capered around her skirts. A hawk on a travelling perch eyed me balefully. And an animal such as I had never seen, all bright eyes and poking fingers, the colour of a horse chestnut with a ruff around its face and a long tail. Complete with a gold collar and chain, it leapt and clung to one of the carved side-struts of the litter. I could not look away. I was transfixed, entirely seduced by worldly glory, whilst the creature both charmed and repelled me in equal measure.

Then, without warning, with harsh cries and snatching hands, the exotic creature leapt to dart through the nuns, drawn up in ranks to welcome this visitor. The nuns flinched as one, their cries in counterpoint. The lap dogs yapped and gave chase. And as the animal scurried past me, I knew!

Stooping smartly, I snatched at the trailing end of its chain so that it came to a screaming, chattering halt at my feet, its sharp teeth very visible. I gave them no thought. Before it could struggle for release, I had lifted it into my arms. Light, fragile boned, its fur incredibly soft, it curled its fingers into my veil and held on, and I felt my face flush as a taut silence fell and all eyes turned on me.

Back in the kitchen, as the reek of hot tallow coated my flesh, I shivered, almost able to feel the scratch of the creature’s fingers as I cut and dipped. The rescue of Joan’s monkey had been a selfishly calculated action, nothing like my impulsive gesture to grasp the hand of the Queen of England. Should I have regretted my boldness? I did not. I had seized the only chance I had ever had to make someone notice me. I did not regret it even when I discovered that the lady was perusing me as if I were a fat carp in the market. I tried a curtsey, unfortunately graceless, my arms full of shrieking fury.

‘Well!’ the lady remarked, her lips at last curved into the semblance of a smile, although her eyes were cool. ‘How enterprising of you.’ And the smile widened into one of blinding charm, sparkling like ice on a puddle on a winter’s morn. ‘I need someone to see to my needs. This girl will do.’ And raising her hand in an authoritative gesture as if the matter was decided, ‘Come with me. Keep hold of the Barbary.’

And so I followed her, my mouth dry, belly churning with a strange mix of shock and excitement. I was to become a maidservant. To fetch and carry and perform menial tasks for a woman who had chosen me. For only a short time, it was true, but I had recognised a chance to be noticed. To be different. And I had held it, by the scruff of its gold-collared neck. But not for long. As soon as I had stepped into the rooms set aside for our guest, it squirmed from my hold to scamper up the embroidered hangings of the bed, to worry at the damask with sharp teeth. I remained where I was, just within the door, ignorant of my tasks.

‘Take these!’ she ordered.

Holding out a pair of embroidered gauntlets, she dropped them to the floor, anticipating that I should retrieve them. Her veil and wimple followed in similar fashion, carelessly discarded with no thought for the expensive cloth. I leapt to obey. Thus I had my first lesson as a lady’s waiting woman. The lady let the cloak fall into my arms, and I stood holding the weight of sumptuous cloth, not knowing what else to do. She gave me no direction, and the arrogance of her demeanour forbade me to ask.

‘God’s Bones!’ she remarked with casual blasphemy that impressed me. ‘Do I have to tolerate these drab accommodations? It’s worse than a dungeon in the Tower. It’s mean enough to make me repent!’ Picking up a jewel casket, she opened it and trilled a laugh that was not entirely pleasant. ‘You do not know who I am. Why should a novice in this backwater of a nunnery know of me? But by God! You will within a twelvemonth. The whole country will know of me.’ The viciousness of the tone was incongruous with such lovely features. She tossed the box onto the bed so that the jewels spilled out in a sparkling stream and cast a cursory glance in my direction. ‘I am Joan, Countess of Kent. For now at least. Soon I will be wife to Prince Edward. The future King of England.’

I knew nothing of her, or of the Prince who would be the next King. What I did know was that I had been chosen. She had chosen me to serve her. I think pride touched my heart. Mistakenly, as it turned out.

I became a willing slave to the Fair Maid of Kent whose grace and beauty were, she informed me, a matter for renown throughout the land. When she needed me, she rang a little silver bell that had remarkable carrying quality of sound. It rang with great frequency.

‘Take this gown and brush the hem—so much dust. And treat it with care.’

I brushed. I was very careful.

‘Fetch lavender—you do have lavender in your herb garden, I presume? Find some for my furs. I’ll not wear them again for some months …’

I ravaged Sister Margery’s herb patch for lavender, risking the sharp edge of the Infirmarian’s tongue.

‘Take that infernal monkey—’ for so I learned it to be ‘—into the garth. Its chatter makes my head ache. And water. I need a basin of water. Hot water—not cold as last time. And when you’ve done that, bring me ink. And a pen.’

Countess Joan was an exacting mistress, but I never minded the summonses. A window into the exhilarating world of the royal Court had been unlatched and flung wide, through which I might peer and wonder.

‘Comb out my hair,’ she ordered me.

So I did, loosening the plaited ropes of red gold to free them of tangles with an ivory comb I wished was mine.

‘Careful, girl!’ She struck out, catching my hand with her nails, enough to draw blood. ‘My head aches enough without your clumsy efforts!’

Countess Joan’s head frequently ached. I learned to move smartly out of range, but as often as she repelled me she lured me back. And the most awe-inspiring revelation, to my naive gaze?

The Countess Joan bathed!

It was a ceremony. I held a freshly laundered chemise over my arm and a towel of coarse linen. Countess Joan stripped off all her clothes without modesty. For a moment embarrassed shock crept over my skin, as if I too were unclothed. I had had no exposure to nakedness. No nun removed her undershift. A nun slept in her chemise, washed beneath it with a cloth dipped in a bowl of water, would die in it. Nakedness was a sin in the eye of God. Countess Joan had no such inhibitions. Gloriously naked, she stepped into her tub of scented water, while I simply gaped as I waited to hand her the linen when her washing was complete.

‘Now what’s wrong, girl?’ she asked with obvious amusement at my expense. ‘Have you never seen a woman in the flesh before? I don’t suppose you have, living with these old crones.’ She laughed, an appealing sound that made me want to smile, until I read the lines of malice in her face. ‘You’ll not have seen a man either, I wager.’ She yawned prettily in the heat, stretching her arms so that her breasts rose above the level of the scented water.

‘Wash my hair for me.’

I did, of course.

Wrapped in a chamber robe with her damp hair loose over her shoulders, Countess Joan delved into one of her coffers, removed a looking glass and stepped to the light from the window to inspect her features. She smiled at what she saw. Why would she not? I simply stared at the object with its silver frame and gleaming surface, until the Countess tossed her head, sensing my gaze.