Edward’s nights were spent with me, where anxieties still gnawed at him.

“I should be leading the attack,” he fretted. “Am I not strong enough?”

“Of course you are.”

But the depredations of Philippa’s death had dug deep. His strength was much restored, but however much I might not like to admit it, Edward’s mind had lost its incisive edge. While he was playing chess, reading a book of favorite poetry, enjoying the music of a well-played lute and sweet singing, his concentration could vanish, his awareness of his surroundings drifting away like high clouds under the strength of a summer sun. Even his confidence waned. And as it faded, my fears for him grew. He would never lead his troops with the same superb flamboyance, if at all. And yet I gave thanks: The isolation was over and Edward was reunited with his Court. A victory at Gaunt’s hands in France would in some measure restore Edward’s confidence in his ability to make well-balanced decisions. I poured two cups of fine Bordeaux, a wine symbolic of Edward’s possessions.

“To England’s victory!” I raised mine, and drank.

“To England! And to you, my love.” Edward kissed me with all the passion of a mighty king.

I celebrated too soon, of course. The news that trickled in over the coming months was not good. In the north King Charles of France had learned from past mistakes and refused to be drawn into battle against a major force. Knolles, increasingly vilified, lost impetus and authority, his troops becoming separated and easy meat for the French vultures to pick off. In the south we fared better. Limoges was sacked and burned, which put a stop to the French cause in that vicinity, but all we heard were tales of the Prince’s being forced to return to Bordeaux, abandoning the attack, defeated not by the French but by his own pain-racked body.

Edward’s convictions drained away.

“Gaunt is there,” I soothed. “He will take control. There is no need to worry.”

But increasingly Edward looked inward and was reluctant to talk to me. Nor did I realize the problem until I saw him waiting on the battlements for news that did not come, with young Thomas clamped to his side by a heavy hand on his shoulder, even though Thomas shuffled and twitched, clearly wishing to be in the stables or practicing his swordplay—anywhere but with his burden of a father.

“Then go!” Edward snapped, releasing the boy, and Thomas went with alacrity.

When I took the boy’s place, tucking my hand within his arm, Edward smiled, but there was a loss in his face. It was not I he wanted, and although the remedy was clear to me, it was not a pleasant one. I thought I would not enjoy the outcome, but I was woman enough and confident enough in my new role to do it. For the sake of the King’s health, I would risk the consequences.

I wrote a formal invitation on good-quality vellum, complete with wax and Edward’s seal, and prepared to dispatch it with a courier in full regalia. It was wholly illegal for the King’s Concubine to employ the royal seal—but why not? It could not help but have the desired effect. With a duplicity for which I made no excuse, I kept it from Edward. What point in raising his hopes if by some chance it never came to pass? Nor did I sign my name—it crossed my mind that I might just live to regret this missive. Indeed, I stood before the fire in my chamber, holding it between my fingertips as I considered consigning the document to the flames.

Could I not provide all the affection that Edward needed?

But news arrived. Devastating news that drove Edward to his knees in the chapel, his face ravaged with distress. The Prince’s tiny son and heir, Edward of Angouleme, heir to England’s crown, had died in Bordeaux. The Prince was too ill and distraught to carry on the campaign. He would return to England, leaving the campaigning in the increasingly ineffective hands of Gaunt.

Edward wept.

In the same hour I sent the letter. I could not afford to change my mind.

I wrote again to Windsor, with rigid formality.

I am restored to Edward’s pleasure. And to his confidences. He has no interest in Ireland. The Gascony situation takes all his attention, which at best is wayward. You are still your own man in Ireland and I think there will be no interference from London.

I received a reply by return of the courier, in Windsor’s trenchant style—he wrote as he spoke.

I received your two letters within days of each other; such is the difficulty of communication. I am relieved that you are restored.

For me or for him? I grimaced cynically.

Keep my name in Edward’s mind. This is a hard road and I need all the help I can get.

The final paragraph surprised me.

I would give you one more piece of advice. You have experienced what it will be like for you without royal patronage. I did warn you when we last met. You rejected my advice. Now you know it for the truth. Your position as royal mistress can be undermined in the blink of an eye. Make the most of your opportunities while you can. I doubt the Prince and his ambitious wife will make a place for you at Court.

And then I was more than surprised.

I think of our meetings more frequently than I might wish. Yours was not a comfortable companionship, but I find that you dwell in my thoughts. It might surprise you to know that you are, on occasion, impossible to dislodge. You have claws of steel. So, accepting that, I admit that your wit and charm give me consolation in my isolation in this place. With some regret, I do not see myself returning to London within the foreseeable future. I think we would have dealt well together if events had fallen out differently.

Keep well, Alice. Keep safe. Your supreme position will make your enemies livelier than you might imagine. Take care that you do not put any weapons into their hands.

Accept this advice from one who knows.

I laughed softly, and then stared as I unwrapped the package that accompanied the reply, its content obvious even before I unrolled the soft leather: a slim-bladed knife that could be secreted in a sleeve or bodice. A lethal means of protection from the assassin. How ridiculous of him! Who would possibly wish me physical harm?

I found that I too regretted Windsor’s absence from Court. I doubted he would be faithful to that final less-than-chaste kiss. But then, as King’s Concubine, neither was I.

He had my protection in mind. A foolish dog and a slim blade.

Should I have been afraid? I was not. My mistake, perhaps.

The reply to my royal invitation took longer to arrive than Windsor’s letter, but was far more impressive when it did. It came in person, arriving at Windsor with palanquins, outriders, and an impressive military escort with its pennons fluttering bravely. Eye catching and ostentatious, such an entourage could only have one owner. Yes, I conceded. I might just regret this. But it was the only answer to the problem that I could see.

Family!

Edward needed family around him. He wanted—as he had all his life—his children and the memories they brought him. He might be heroic on the battlefield, he might be a superb administrator, his physical presence might be matchless, but at home he needed the anchor of family. The absence of humor and affection played on his temper, his spirits. Philippa and the offspring she had borne him had been so vitally important to him after his own childhood of loneliness and isolation under the selfish hand of his mother. Creating his own family had been all-important to him, giving him all the stability and love he had never had.

But what now, now that his family had dwindled? Two sons in France, both heavily committed to war. Lionel dead in Italy. His daughters, except for one, all dead. Young Thomas too young and self-interested with the occupations of youth to give his father real companionship. Edward needed family around him.

Why can’t you give him what he needs? I demanded crossly, but honesty made me admit: I could give him much, but not the sense of belonging that Edward needed. And the one remedy was, regrettably, Isabella, his much-loved daughter. Willful, capricious, a lover of ostentation and show. She was the remedy.

Now, below me, emerging from the swagged and cushioned palanquin was the unmistakable figure of Isabella, without her much-desired husband but with two little girls with the same fair hair and dawning beauty as their mother. I watched her arrival from the little chamber above the main door. Hardly had she set foot on the ground than she began to issue orders as if she had never been away.

I tapped my fingers against the window ledge as Isabella laid claim to Havering. Should I waylay her or let her settle in and meet Edward on her own terms? I mentally tossed the choices. If I went down now, there would only be a clash of words and personalities, with no one to cushion the resentment that would erupt like a flame to dry tinder. Ah! But if I let her see Edward, make her own rules, order her own accommodations, I would immediately put myself at a disadvantage. Isabella would take control before we sat down together for supper.

Well, now! I stilled my fingers, considering the appropriateness of my garments for the occasion that I foresaw. Since when had I retreated from a little unpleasantness? Was I not chatelaine of this palace since my very public elevation at the hunt? Who supervised the money and the housekeeping? God help me to harness my words and my temper—I needed her as my ally. So, having the niceties of Court ceremonial for the welcoming of important personages at my fingertips, I was standing on the dais in the Great Hall, clad in Court finery, Latimer and a servant at my side, when she eventually swept in.