A man approached from where he had been waiting discreetly beside the screen.
‘Yes, Sire.’
‘Take this girl to the Queen. She has sent for her. Now, Will …’ They were already knee-deep in planning. ‘I think there’s the perfect site. Let me get rid of these dogs and birds …’ Whistling softly to the raptor on his wrist, the King headed to the door. Wykeham followed. They left me without a second look. Why would they not?
Sir Joscelyn, who I was to learn was the royal steward, beckoned me to follow him but I hesitated and looked back over my shoulder. Wykeham was nodding, my last view of him gesturing with his hands as if describing the size and extent of the building he envisaged. They laughed together, the King’s strong voice overlaying Wykeham’s softer responses. And then he was gone with the King, as if my last friend on earth had deserted me. My only friend. And, of course, he wasn’t, but who else did I know here? I would not forget his brusque kindness. As for the King, I had expected a crown or at least a chain of office. Not a pack of dogs and a hawk. But there was no denying the sovereignty that sat as lightly on his shoulders as a summer mantle.
‘Come on, girl. I haven’t got all day.’
I sighed and followed the steward to discover what would become of me as one of the Queen’s habitual waifs and strays. I stuffed the rosary that I still clutched into the bosom of my overgown and followed as I had been bidden.
The Queen’s apartments were silent. Finding no one in any of the antechambers to whom he could hand me over, Sir Joscelyn rapped on a door, was bidden to enter and did so, drawing me with him. I found myself on the threshold of a large sun-filled room so full of colour and activity and soft chatter, of feminine glamour, that it filled my whole vision, more than even the grandeur of the Great Hall. Here was every hue and tint I could imagine, creating butterflies of the women who inhabited the room. Ill-mannered certainly, but I stared at so beguiling a scene. There they were, chattering as they stitched, books and games to hand for those who wished, not an enshrouding wimple or brow-hugging veil amongst them. A whole world of which I had no knowledge to enchant ear and eye. The ladies talked and laughed; someone was singing to the clear notes of a lute. There was no silence here.
I could not see the Queen in their midst. Neither, to my relief, could I see the Countess of Kent.
The steward cast an eye and discovered the face he sought.
‘My lady.’ His bow was perfection. Learning fast, I curtseyed. ‘I would speak with Her Majesty.’
Princess Isabella looked up from the lute she was playing but her fingers continued to strum idly over the strings. Now I knew the source of her beautiful fairness: she was her father’s daughter in height and colouring.
‘Her Majesty is indisposed, Joscelyn. Can it wait?’
‘I was commanded to bring this person to Her Majesty.’ He nudged me forward with haughty condescension. I curtseyed again.
‘Why?’ Her gaze remained on the lute strings. She was not the King’s daughter in kindness.
‘Wykeham brought her, my lady.’
The Princess’s eye lifted to take in my person. ‘Who are you?’
‘Alice, my lady.’ There was no welcome here. Not even a memory of who I was. ‘From St Mary’s Abbey at Barking, my lady.’
A line dug between Isabella’s brows, then smoothed. ‘I remember. The girl with the rosary—the one who worked in the kitchens or some such.’
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘Her Majesty sent for you?’ Her fingers strummed over the lute strings again and her foot tapped impatiently. ‘I suppose I must do something with you.’ The glint in her eye, I decided, was not friendly.
One of the ladies approached to put her hand on the Princess’s shoulder with the confidence of long acquaintance. ‘Play for us, Isabella. We have a new song.’
‘With pleasure. Take the girl to the kitchens, Joscelyn. Give her a bed and some food. Then put her to work. I expect that’s what Her Majesty intended.’
‘Yes, my lady.’
Isabella had already given her attention to the ladies and their new song. The steward bowed himself out, pushing me before him, the door closing on that magical scene. I had not managed to step beyond the threshold, and I was shaken by a desire to do so, to be part of the life that went on behind that closed door.
Sir Joscelyn strode off without a word, expecting me to follow, as I did. I should be grateful that I was being given food and a place to sleep. Would life as a kitchen wench at Havering-atte-Bower be better or worse than as a conversa in the Abbey at Barking? Would it be better than life as a drudge in the Perrers household?’ I was about to find out, thanks to the effortless malice of Princess Isabella, for I knew, beyond doubt, that the Queen had not brought me all the way from Barking to pluck chickens in her kitchens. It was all Isabella’s fault. I knew an enemy when I saw one.
‘This girl, Master Humphrey …’ The steward’s expression spoke his contempt. ‘Another of Her Majesty’s gutter sweepings to live off our charity.’
A grunt was all the reply he got. Master Humphrey was wielding a cleaver on the carcass of a pig, splitting it down the backbone with much-practised skill.
‘The Lady said to bring her to you.’
The cook stopped, in mid-chop, and looked up under grizzled brows. ‘And what, may I ask, do I do with her?’
‘Feed her. Give her a bed. Clothe her and put her to work.’
‘Ha! Look around you, Jos! What do you see?’
I looked also. The kitchen was awash with activity: on all sides scullions, spit boys, pot boys, bottle washers applied themselves with a racket as if all hell had broken loose. The heat was overpowering from the ovens and open fires. I could already feel sweat beginning to trickle down my spine and dampen my hair beneath my hood.
‘What?’ Sir Joscelyn growled. I thought he did not approve of the liberty taken with his name.
‘I don’t employ girls, Jos. They’re not strong enough. Good enough for the dairy and serving the dishes—but not here.’ The cook emphasised the final word with a downward sweep of his axe.
‘Well, you do now. Princess Isabella’s orders. Kitchens, she said.’
Another grunt. ‘And what the Lady wants …!’
‘Exactly.’
Sir Joscelyn duly abandoned me in the midst of the teaming life of Havering’s kitchens. I recognised the activities—the cleaning, the scouring, the chopping and stirring—but my experience was a pale shadow to them. The noise was ear-shattering. Exhilarating. Shouts and laughter, hoots of ridicule, bellowed orders, followed inevitably by oaths and complaints. There seemed to be little respect from the kitchen lads, but the cook’s orders were carried out with a promptness that suggested a heavy hand if they transgressed them. And the food. My belly rumbled at the sight of it. As for the scents of roasting meat, of succulent joints …
‘Don’t stand there like a bolt of cloth.’
The cook, throwing down his axe with a clatter, gave me no more than a passing look, but the scullions did, with insolent grins and earthy gestures. I might not have much experience of such signs with tongues and fingers—except occasionally in the market between a whore and a dissatisfied customer—but it did not take much imagination. They made my cheeks glow with a heat that was not from the fire.
‘Sit there.’ Master Humphrey pressed down on my shoulder