The King celebrates his fiftieth year with a great tournament and jousting.… Magnificent! The King was superlative in his new armor. I could not find the words, burnished as he was by the sun, sword and armor striking fire as his arm rose and fell, the plumes on his helmet nodding imperiously. And yet I feared for him, my loins liquid and cold with fear. I could not look away, but when blood matted his sleeve, dripping from his fingers, I closed my eyes.

No need, of course. His energy always prodigious, he was touched with magic that day. Fighting in the melee with all the skill and dash and finesse of a hero of the old tales, he had the grace at the end to heap praise on those whom he defeated.

That day he was all hero to me.

Afterward, when the combatants gathered in the banter much loved by men, the Queen’s ladies threw flowers to the knight of their choice. I had no one. Nor did I care, for there was only one to fill my vision, whether in the lists or in the vicious cut and thrust of personal combat. And I was audacious enough to fling a rosebud, when he approached the gallery in which we women sat with the Queen. He had removed his helm. He was so close to me, his face pale and drawn in the aftermath of his efforts, that I could detect the smear of blood on his cheek where he had wiped at the dust with his gauntlet. I was spellbound, so much so that the flower I so ineptly flung in his direction struck the cheek of the King’s stallion; a soft blow, but the high-blooded destrier instantly reared in the manner of its kind.

“Sweet Jesu!” Startled, the King dropped his helm, tightening his reins as he fought to bring the animal back under control.

“Have you no sense?” Isabella snapped.

I thought better of replying, horrified at what I had achieved, steeling myself to withstand the King’s reproof. Without a word he snapped his fingers to his page to pick up the helm and the now thoroughly trampled flower. I looked at him in fear.

“My thanks, lady.”

He bowed his head solemnly to me as he tucked the crumpled petals into the gorget at his throat. My belly clenched; my face flamed to my hairline. Proud, haughty, confident, the King would treat me with respect when I had almost unhorsed him.

“Our kitchen maid cannot yet be relied upon to act decorously in public!” Isabella remarked, setting up a chorus of laughter.

But the King did not sneer. Urging his horse closer to the gilded canvas, the fire dying from his eyes as the energy of battle receded, he stretched out his hand, palm up.

“Mistress Alice, if you would honor me…”

And I placed mine there. The King kissed my fingers.

“The rose was a fine gesture, if a little wayward. My horse and I both thank you, Mistress Alice.”

There was the rustle of appreciative laughter, no longer at my expense. I felt the heat of his kiss against my skin, hotter than the beat of blood in my cheeks.

I am learning to dance. “Holy Virgin!” I misstepped the insistent beat of the tabor and shawm for the twentieth time. How could I appreciate the ability to count coins under the stern tutorship of Janyn Perrers, yet not be able to count the steps in a simple processional dance? The King’s hand tightened to give me balance as I lurched unforgivably. Should it not have been a graceful dance? The King was a better dancer than I. It would be hard to be worse.

“You are allowed to look at me, Mistress Alice,” he announced when we came together again and snatched a conversation.

“If I do, I shall fall over my feet, Sire—or yours. I’ll cripple you before the night is out.”

“I’ll lead you in the right steps, you know.” I must have looked askance. “Do you not trust me, Alice?”

He had called me by my name, without formality. I looked up at him to find his eyes quizzical on my face, and I promptly missed the next simple movement.

“I dare not,” I managed.

“You would refuse your King?” He was amused again.

“I would when it would be to his detriment.”

“Then we must do our poor best, sweet Alice, and count the broken toes at the end of the evening.”

Sweet Alice? Was he flirting with me? But no. That was not possible. I exasperated him more often than I entertained him. As was quickly proved, if I had had any doubts.

“By God, Mistress Alice. You did not lie,” he stated ruefully as the procession wound to its end. “You should issue a warning to any man who invites you.”

“No one will! Not every man is as brave as you, Sire.”

“Then I’ll remember not to risk it again,” he said as he handed me back to sit at Philippa’s side.

But he did. Even though I still fell over his feet.

The Queen did not forbid me to dance with the King, but she appeared to find little enjoyment in the occasion.

The Queen has given the King a lion. Ah, yes! The affair of the lion. Observing the damsels with scorn where they huddled, hiding their faces, retreating from its roars in mock fear, and keen to find a comforting arm from one of the King’s gallant knights, I walked toward the huge cage, where I might inspect the beast at close quarters. I was not afraid. I would not pretend to be so. How could it harm me when it was imprisoned behind bars and locks? Its rough, tawny mane, its vast array of teeth fascinated me. I stepped closer as it settled on its haunches, tail twitching in impotent warning.

“You’re not afraid, Mistress Alice?” Soft-footed, the King stood behind me.

“No, Sire. What need?” We had returned to formality, and I was not sorry. Was he not the King? “The girls are foolish, not really afraid. They just wish to…”

“They wish to attract attention?”

“Yes, Sire.”

We looked across to where the fluttering damsels received assurance and flattery.

“And you do not, Mistress Alice? Does not some young knight take your extremely critical eye? Is there no one you admire?”

I thought about this, giving his question more consideration than perhaps was intended, appraising the wealth of strength and beauty and high blood around me.

“No, Sire.” It was the truth.

“But you admire my lion.”

“Oh, I do.”

The lion watched us with impassive hatred. Were we not the cause of its imprisonment? I considered its state, and my own past experience. Both kept under duress, without freedom. Both existing on the whim of another. But I had escaped by miraculous means. There would be no miracle for this lion. This poor beast would remain in captivity until the day of its death.

“Does nothing fill you with terror? Other than horses, of course.”

There! He had unnerved me again. “Yes,” I replied. “But it’s a fear you’ll never know, Sire.”

“Tell me, then.”

Before I could collect my wits, I found myself explaining, because he was regarding me as if he really cared about my fears. “I am afraid of the future, Sire, where nothing is permanent; nothing is certain. Of a life without stability, without friends or family, without a home. Where I am nobody, without name or status. I don’t want to be dependent on the pity or charity of others. I had enough of that from Sister Goda. And at the hands of my sister-in-law, Signora Damiata. It is a lonely existence and I fear it. I want to make something of myself, for myself. I don’t want to die in penury.”

Holy Mother! I looked fixedly at the lion, horrified. Had I really admitted to all that? To the King?

“It’s a lot to ask,” he replied simply. “For a young woman in your situation.”

Countess Joan had observed as much, if with less courtesy. “Is it impossible?”

“No. That was not my meaning. But it’s a hard road for a woman alone to travel.”

“Must I then accept my fate, like this poor imprisoned beast?”

“Are we not all governed by fate, mistress?” I was aware that his attention was turned from the lion to me and, with just as much speculation, that the conversation had taken a very personal turn, and I sought for an innocuous reply.

“I don’t intend ingratitude, Sire. I’m aware of how much I owe the Queen.”

“I didn’t know that you saw your future in so bleak a light.”

“Why would you, Sire? You are the King. It is not necessary that you either know or care.” For that was how I saw it.

“So you think I don’t care? Am I so selfish?” He was clearly startled; his fine brows met over the bridge of his nose, and I wondered whether I had displeased him. “Or is it that you have a low opinion of all men?”

“I’ve no reason not to. My father, whoever he was, gave me no reason to think highly of them. Nor did my husband, who took me into a sham of a marriage to ward off his sister’s nagging. I did not matter overmuch to either of them.”

For a moment the King looked astounded as my bitterness overflowed, as I thought he might if one of his hounds dared to bite him on the calf.

“You don’t hold back with the truth, do you, mistress? It seems I must make amends for my sex.”

“You owe me nothing, Sire.”

“Perhaps it is not a matter of owing, Alice. Perhaps it is more of what I find I wish to do.”

The lion roared, lashing out with its claws against the metal, interrupting whatever the King, or I, might have said next. He led me away as attendants from his menagerie came to transport the beast, and I thanked God for the timely intervention. I had said quite enough to damn myself.

But the King was not finished with me quite yet. “You are not justified in your reading of my character, Mistress Alice,” he said as we came to the door, a wry twist of his lips. “I know exactly what you fear. I lived through a period of my life when my future hung on a thread, when I did not know friend from enemy, and my authority as King was under attack. I know about rising every morning from my bed not knowing what fate would dish out for me that day—whether good or evil.”