At least my enemies took their lead from Isabella, whose demeanor toward me was rigidly polite, so icy that her stare could have frozen the Thames in August. So cold that it hurt.

It could not last. It was not in the nature of women, enclosed in the hothouse of solar politics, to tolerate a sin for long without a bite, a snap, a pinch. How publicly I was brought to book. In the manner of its doing, I would never forgive them for it. The occasion was a royal visit in November of 1363, when I had been Edward’s lover for a little more than a month: a celebration of true splendor, when the rulers of France, Cyprus, and Scotland visited the English Court to be overawed by our magnificence. At a tournament at Smithfield, Edward would joust and lead one of the forays in the melee. At Edward’s request, we were to attend with the Queen, clad in royal colors to support the symbolic victory of England over her enemies. We gathered in the audience chamber before making our procession to the ladies’ gallery, a mass of silver and blue and sable fur, an eye-catching display of royal power as we damsels clustered around the Queen, who also shone in blue and silver with sapphires on her breast. A flutter of anticipation danced through the ranks.

Until the flutter of anticipation evolved into a rustle of shocked delight as I became the center of attention. As I knew I must.

The Queen’s eye fell on me.

“Alice…”

I could have made my excuses and absented myself. I could have hidden, motivated by cowardice, by humiliation, for was that not the intent?

My enemy had misjudged me. I would not hide.

“Majesty.” I curtsied. My skirts, as all could see, were not silver and blue and furred with sable.

“Why…?” The Queen gestured toward my threadbare clothing, which I’d deliberately chosen. I wore the garments I had first arrived in and kept for no good reason, since I had had no intention of ever wearing them again. Worn and crude, stained and creased from their long sojourn in my coffer, now they clothed me from head to foot as a lowly servant in coarse russet. I stood out in the midst of this jeweled throng, a sparrow worming its scruffy way into a charm of goldfinches.

So! I had thrown down my gauntlet. Now I considered my reply most carefully. Did I state the blatant truth? The idea appealed to me as my temper roiled beneath the rough overgown of a conversa. Every one of the innocent-faced damsels would know it, so why not unroll it like a valuable bolt of velvet for all to gloat over? Or did I exert some subtle dissimulation? Subtle? How could I be subtle? How could I lie, when fury beat in my head like a blacksmith’s hammer?

All I could see in my mind was the beautiful gown laid out for me on my bed, the most beautiful I had ever owned. The silk and damask was slashed and torn beyond repair, the fur edging ravaged. The veil was rent in half, the embroidered girdle cut in two. I had worked hard on it for so many weeks, but in the space of an hour someone had wielded a pair of shears with no skill and much vengeance. All my hard-worked stitching—when I had employed more patience than I had ever dreamed possible—entirely undone. Someone had delighted in taking out their hatred of me on Philippa’s gift: The soft leather shoes with damask rosettes had entirely vanished. I could have wept when I saw the destruction, but those who shared my room would have enjoyed my grief far too much. For a moment I had stood and looked, swallowing the tears, moved not so much by this evidence of my isolation but by the disfigurement of so beautiful a thing. I heard a choked giggle that hardened my resolve. I carefully folded the ruined garment and veil and with fierce deliberation changed into the cheap fustian fit for a domestic drudge. If I could not wear the best, I would not compete with second-best. I made no attempt to hide what I had once been and what had been done to me.

Truth or dissembling? I looked ’round at the waiting faces, hearing the words in my mind.

One of your damsels disfigured my gown out of spite, Majesty.

Well, that would get me nowhere. I had no proof, only the evidence. I would merely look foolish.

“She cannot attend like that,” Isabella observed when I had still not explained.

“No,” the Queen agreed. “She cannot.”

“I suppose there is a reason for the disobedience.” I could hear the smile in Isabella’s voice. Not that I thought she was the guilty one. Such a vendetta was beneath her, and she knew the Queen’s wishes in this.

I raised my eyes to Philippa’s face. “I am not willfully disobedient, Majesty.”

Her face was serene, her eyes clear. “A misfortune, perhaps…”

She had thrown me a lifeline. “Yes, my lady. It was my own carelessness.”

“And so great a carelessness that the gown is beyond wearing?”

“Yes, Majesty. The blame is mine.”

I looked at no one but the Queen, praying that she would understand and allow me to retire without punishment.

“Carelessness is not one of your sins, Alice,” she observed.

“Forgive me, my lady.” I lowered my gaze to the silver-and-blue rosettes on the toes of her shoes.

“Alice…” I looked up to see the Queen nod briskly. “I understand. Come with me. And you too, Isabella. We have time, I think. Half an hour…”

I heard an exhalation around me. Disappointment, perhaps. But what a sense of exhilaration I felt. I had proved stronger than my enemies. I had shown that their hostility meant nothing to me. I would make no excuses; I would not retaliate; I would keep my own counsel. They would see that I had no fear of them. For the first time I learned the true power of self-control.

And that half hour demanded by the Queen?

A half hour was all that was needed to put in place a transformation. The Queen was soon disrobed of her blue and silver and furred gown. My own disreputable garments were stripped from me—I never saw them again—and Philippa’s robes became mine. They were far too large, but with some robust lacing I kept them from falling off my shoulders.

Not a word was spoken other than instructions to breathe or lift or step out.

“Good!” The Queen, regal even in her shift, watched as her silver-edged veil and girdle were added to my ensemble. “Tell the King we will be ready in five minutes, Isabella.” And when the Queen and I found ourselves alone together, she asked: “Will you tell me, Alice?”

“There is nothing to tell, my lady.”

She did not press me but turned again to the matter at hand.

“Fetch the crimson and gold with the gold overrobe. And the gold veil and the ruby collar.”

We returned to the audience chamber, where the atmosphere was thick with the waiting. There the Queen stood in our midst, glowing like a priceless ruby in the silver-and-blue setting of her damsels, whom she addressed with hard-eyed severity.

“We will honor the King today. It is my will. Alice is a loyal subject to both myself and His Majesty.” She looked around at the suddenly bland faces. “I am displeased by the discourtesy to myself and those who serve me. I will not tolerate it.”

Silence.

“Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Majesty.” There was a hurried bending of the knee on all sides.

What an oblique little statement, saying little but acknowledging everything, and as clear as day to anyone with wit.

“Mistress Perrers will sit at my side at the tournament,” the Queen continued with a flat stare. “Now, let us put in a belated appearance. It is always good for a woman to be a little late when a handsome man awaits her. Give me your arm, Mistress Perrers.”

The tournament proved to be a superb exhibition of manly warfare, a triumphal celebration of my position at Edward’s court. And what a contest he fought. If the visiting monarchs had any thoughts of the waning powers of England’s King as he entered his fiftieth year, Edward dispelled them with his mastery of the art of combat.

I should have rejoiced, not least at my own victory, but the whole performance proved to be an edged sword for me. Jealousy is a terrible sin and a vicious companion: an animal that eats and claws and gives no quarter. Thus it attacked me throughout that glorious afternoon. I might be Edward’s lover, but it was to Philippa that he looked, to Philippa that he gave the honors and the chivalric adoration. Not once did he single me out in my royal blue and silver, neither with look nor gesture. Edward accepted Philippa’s scarf as his guerdon and wore it pinned to the sash over his body armor. He kissed Philippa’s fingers and vowed to fight in her name. At the end, when he received the victor’s prize and Philippa’s loving salute, Edward spoke to her alone.

And I? I was woman enough to resent it. Why could he not speak to me? I was ashamed, bitterly remorseful of my envy, but unable to quell it. It assaulted me, as a grub burrows into the flesh of an apple, and I watched the tournament with a smile painted on my face, empty words on my lips, and anger in my heart that the King would take my body in private but not acknowledge me in public. I knew my thoughts were all awry, unfair to both Philippa and Edward, and to the role I had undertaken with my eyes open to the consequences, but still I raged inwardly.

I was simply one of the damsels to fetch and carry.

Until I was in Edward’s bed that night.

“That was a good day’s work.” He stretched and sighed, pinning me effortlessly to the bed, his body slick and sated.

“Which part of it?” I responded primly, similarly replete, the monster of discontent temporarily laid to rest. I had not known that I could be prim, but I was discovering a multitude of skills to beguile a potent man. Edward had pleasured me with skill equal to that shown in the lists, and with far more subtlety.