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

conversa stood as one, with heads bowed and hands folded discreetly within their sleeves. Mother Sybil genuflected before the altar, and Her Majesty, still outside my vision, moved slowly through our midst toward the transept.
    Slowly. Very slowly.
    Which allowed me my first sight of true royalty.
    Even today I recall my astonishment. Where was Countess Joan’sshow of ostentatious wealth and power? There was no such magnificence here. I had envisaged a noble bearing, a gown in rich colors, sumptuous materials stitched with embroidery, with train and furred oversleeves. A crown, a gold chain, gold and silver rings heavy with jewels. A presence of authority and elegance, of royal beauty. Joan’s arrival had been announced to us by courier and trumpet blast. I looked at the Queen of England, and looked again.
    She was well-nigh invisible in her anonymity.
    Philippa of Hainault.
    The years had not treated this woman with gentleness. All trace of youth, any beauty she might have had as that young bride who had come to England from the Low Countries to wed our vigorous King Edward more than thirty years ago now, were lost to her. And where was the expression of regal power? Her gown might be of excellent quality, but it lacked glamour, the colors of the silk damask more muted than glowing, in browns and ochers and russet. Nor was the cut of the cloth in the fashionably sleek, close-fitting form, but wide, ample enough to hide the lady’s stout figure and broad hips. She was not elegant. She was not tall. She did not overawe. She wore no jewels. As for her hair, it was completely obscured, every wisp and curl, by a severe wimple and veil. Queen Philippa was neither a handsome woman nor a leader of fashion.
    How disappointing!
    My first thought was of Countess Joan, who would eclipse this dowdy little woman after wedding her royal prince. The frivolous royal Court would circle ’round the vivacious new Princess rather than this fading, unprepossessing Queen. Was that not the order of things? Who could admire this aging, shuffling woman?
    The Queen halted. There was the faintest gasp for breath. She must be even older than I had thought. I looked again—longer than a glance—and instantly chided myself for my lack of compassion. There was a reason for the excruciatingly slow progress. The Queen was ill. She was in pain. With a hand resting heavily on the arm of her attendant, she continued to make her small, uneven steps because each one pained her beyond endurance. It seemed to me that she could barely move her head, her neck and shoulders were so rigid with a spasm ofthe muscles. The hand that clutched the arm of her woman was swollen, the flesh as tight and shiny as the skin of a drum. No wonder she wore no rings. How would she push them beyond her swollen knuckles without unbearable discomfort?
    We curtsied as Her Majesty passed. She inclined her head in unsmiling recognition, pausing almost as she drew level with me to take in another breath. I saw the substantial bosom of her gown rise sharply on the inhalation, her nostrils narrow, and a crease deepen between her brows. Then the royal feet moved on—only to stumble on the uneven paving so that she fell. Without her grip on the arm of the young woman at her side, it would have been a disaster. As it was, she sank to her knees with a cry of agonized distress. Horrified by the quality of her suffering, I gave up pretending not to look.
    “Help me,” she murmured, to no one in particular, eyes closed tight in agony, her free hand outstretched to snatch at some invisible aid. “Dear God, help me!” And Queen Philippa dropped her rosary beads. They slid from her fingers to fall with a little clatter of pearls and carved bone on the stones before her.
    “Help me to my feet.…”
    And because it seemed the obvious thing to do, the only thing to do, I stretched out my hand and took hers in mine. The Queen’s hand bore down, and as it did I froze, my mind skittering to the