We both knew that Windsor would not be spoken of between us again. It was a tacit agreement that for the length of Edward’s life, my husband did not exist. Edward turned from me to shuffle toward his bed with its embroidered heraldic hangings. “I am weary, Alice. I have not slept well since you went away. Or at least I don’t think I have.…Memory plays tricks on me.…”

“Then you must sleep now. I’ll stay with you.”

I helped him to lie down on the magnificent bed that we had shared. And I sat beside him, curled against the pillows, his hand in mine as his eyelids began to droop.

“Do you know?” he murmured. “When they told me that you were not allowed to come to me, that we would be parted forever, I was destroyed. Not an emotion appropriate for a king, is it?”

“No. But it is the emotion of a man of honor and courtesy. Of a lover.” I folded his hand between mine.

“I thought I would never see you again.…”

“But I am here now.”

“And all will be well.”

“All will be well.”

I sat with him until sleep claimed him. I would have liked to have told him that he would grow strong, that he would resume the mantle of kingship. I would have liked to assure him that his present clear understanding would remain; that he would know my love and care of him for all the remaining days of his life. But I could not. This lucidity, I suspected, was transient. I tucked the memory away for the difficult days.

Did I weep for him?

Not now. He would not have wished it. I would do what I could for him. I would stay until the end. Windsor would understand.

For that I was surely blessed.

Despite my fears, Edward’s grip on life proved to be ferocious, his mind set on one final magnificent gesture. He was in no fit state to travel, but his resilience was a fine thing.

“I will do it. I will not be gainsaid in this! Do you hear me, Alice?” I heard him. Saw the flash of the old imperious Plantagenet regality. But so brief, so painfully brief. His head lolled forward, his chin against his chest, and he dozed. But on his awakening, the thought was still firmly lodged in his unsteady mind.

“I will sit at the table in Wykeham’s Round Tower at Windsor, even if I have to be carried into the chamber in a litter.”

This would be the last St. George’s Day that Edward would ever see, whether he went to Windsor or no. His physicians warned against the exertion. I shrank from the bathos of the scene that would ensue if I consented. I could not bear it for him.

“Arrange it for me, Alice.” His twisted mouth could still issue orders. “Would you stop me from doing something that will bring you such personal joy? I don’t think you’ll refuse me.”

I flushed at the accusation, but held my ground. “Your health is of prime importance to me, Edward!”

“I know. But I also know you’ll allow me to see this through.” His speech was slurring as his energy waned, but he could still grip my hand. “Do it, Alice!”

How could I not? Edward dragged himself through the days with sheer willpower. He wanted to do it—and so he would.

“I will arrange it. But you know what I will ask,” I said.

“Yes.” His sigh acknowledged the burden I had put on him. “Do I not know you like I know my own soul? A difficult request, Alice…”

“Simply to be there, to watch? Is it so difficult?”

“Unorthodox…” His tongue struggled a little over the word.

“You have the power to make the unorthodox the most acceptable thing in the world.”

Oh, I wanted to be there more than I could express. This occasion to mark St. George’s Day meant as much to me as it did to Edward. I did not expect the flood of vitriol that was to be unleashed against me. Or perhaps I did.…

“It is not appropriate, my lord! She will not be admitted!” Princess Joan, whose nose for Court intrigue had sharpened with her widowhood, was haranguing Edward before the week was out.

“But on this occasion…” Edward might regret the onset of a battle royal with the Princess, but he was still prepared to argue my case.

Except that Joan rolled over him like the English cavalry destroyed the French at Poitiers. “She is not a Lady of the Garter. Only those of royal blood qualify for such high recognition. Only Philippa and Isabella. You yourself would have it so, my lord. Would you put a lowborn woman on the same footing as your wife?” She willfully ignored my role as Lady of the Sun, when Edward had done just that. “Even I am not allowed.…”

“I hear you, Joan.” Edward raised a weary hand. “Tradition weighs heavy—and since I was the one to create it…” He smiled apologetically at me.

Since you created it, you could claim the right to change it! But seeing the fretfulness in him, I closed my mouth on any counterargument I might make. I allowed Joan her little victory, for did I not have one that was even greater? It would be for me a moment of pure joy.

“You will come with me,” Edward ordered, gripping my hand.

“I will come to Windsor with you,” I agreed.

“But not to the ceremony,” Joan added for good measure.

Well, we would see what we would see.

We arranged it most carefully, traveling by river to arrive on the day before the ceremony so that the inhabitants of Windsor would not see Edward lying on a litter rather than riding on a warhorse to their gates. I would at least guard him against that ignominy. But would he be able to walk into the chamber? Would he be able to lift the great sword of state?

It was in God’s hands.

And so the day dawned. Edward broke his fast, a cup of wine driving color into his cheeks and strengthening his sinews. I withdrew into the background as his servants clothed and prepared him for his celebration and his ordeal. With lambskin and fur to protect him, fine robes covered his wasted body, giving him a semblance of majesty. I stood aside as he lifted his head and walked slowly into the chamber, his hand pressing hard on the shoulder of one of his knights, to take his seat at the vast circular table.

What was he thinking? I knew the answer. Of his first inaugural ceremony, more than thirty years ago, when he was in the full strength of his youth, attended by the flower of Europe’s chivalry and Philippa, who presided over the subsequent festivities. There would be no festivities to preside over this year—Edward could not maintain his strength for more than an hour. At least Joan would not have the excuse to lord it over the proceedings. And I, the whore, the mistress, would be shut out of the sacred ceremonial. The solemn rituals had no role for the King’s Concubine, and unlike my splendor as the Lady of the Sun, Edward could not make one for me. All I could do was imagine.…

My eye was taken by the approach of young men clad in scarlet robes at the end of the procession, and all my desire was centered on the one fair face in their midst.

I would not be shut out! I would not be absent from this most glorious acceptance of what I had done in my life. I slipped inside the door and stood to the left in the shadow of a great curving tapestry, unmoving, my breathing shallow. I would simply be there. A silent witness.

There were twelve youths, the new generation of England’s rulers, royal blood flowing through an impressive number of veins. I recognized them all. Edward’s two grandsons were the first to kneel and feel the kiss of the sword on one shoulder, then the other: Richard of Bordeaux, slight and fair at ten years, and Edward’s heir; Henry Bolingbroke, Gaunt’s son of similar age; followed by Thomas of Woodstock. Then the young men: Oxford, Salisbury, and Stafford. Mowbray, Beaumont, and Percy. All the great names of the kingdom receiving Edward’s final gift of a knighthood. I had been right. So weak was his arm that the great sword of state quivered, but his will was as strong as ever. I knew he would see it out to the bitter end.

They knelt to receive the honor of knighthood, stood, stepped back. There was only one face I looked for, only one who made my heart bound. And there he was at last. The final youth to kneel before his King—and his father.

John. Our son. My son!

Pale, with nerves chasing across his features, John sank to one knee, his hair bright in the light through the high windows. At thirteen years, he still had the uncoordinated limbs of youth, but he had been well schooled for this day. I held my breath as Edward raised the great sword for the final time, and our son lifted his head to receive the accolade. Pride warmed my blood. Such public recognition of what had been vilified—my place in Edward’s life. I slipped out. I had seen all I needed to see. My son, a Knight of the Garter. Emotion choked me.

“Take me to Sheen,” Edward ordered when the young men, released from their ordeal, had toasted themselves with relieved laughter. “I’ll die there.”

I was afraid that he would.

“What is it?” I asked, seeing the shadow of grief on his face as we began the journey.

He shook his head.

“I shall nag at you until you tell me!”

“There’s one regret I have.…”

“Then it can be remedied.”

“No. It cannot. I allowed matters of state to step in front of friendship. It was a grave misjudgment, and I don’t think it can be forgiven.”

He closed his eyes and would say no more. And however much I worried about it, I could not think what it was that disturbed his rest. And if I could not decipher it, how could I put it right?

And then in the night it came to me. I knew what I must do. And quickly.

* * *

Edward lay on his bed, his chest barely moving, his skin so thin and pale as to be almost translucent, like a pearl from the Thames oyster beds. Occasionally his breath fluttered between his lips, but that was the only sign of the life that remained to him. The day had come. That long, courageous life, lived to the full for the glory of England, was drawing quietly to its close.