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Right as oure firste lettre is now an A,
In beaute first so stood she, makeles.
Hire goodly loking gladed al the prees.
Nas nevere yet seyn thyng to ben preysed derre,
Nor under cloude blak so bright a sterre
-GEOFFREY CHAUCER, Troilus and Criseyde, I, 171-175
When had I a choice to be other than I was? Should I have been more selfish, more stubborn, more rebellious? Have I been too compliant, too quick to give the men in my life what they thought they wanted? Am I a fallen woman, or am I an obedient handmaiden? As a female I was acceptable only as a virginal daughter, a wife, or a widow - unless, of course, I took vows. I have been all three - daughter, wife, widow-and one other, mistress.
My lover is now long dead, and I sense death drawing near for me. I write this for my children, praying that they might understand.
I began my life in a quite acceptable fashion, but the royal family laid such snares in my path that those who would throw the first stone are certain that I can never right myself even now. Yet when had I a choice to be other than I was? This is the argument of my life.
1355
During the week our parish church of St. Antonin on Watling Street, east of St. Paul's in London, hummed with chantry masses. Ourshad long been a parish of wealthy merchants in London who worshipped under thestricture of Christ's teaching that it was easier for a camel to go through theeye of a needle than for a rich man to gain the kingdom of God, and so they bequeathed great sums for masses to be said for their souls after death. The chantry priests were kept busy with almost continuous prayers, for it was an old parish and had buried many wealthy men and their wives, anxious forredemption.
I loved to spend time in St. Antonin's on ordinary days. It was the only place I had permission to go without a companion, a guardian, and I felt safe there. The priests' murmured prayers embraced me, and the familiar paintings and statues of our Savior, His Blessed Mother, and the saints reminded me that as long as I said my prayers and obeyed my elders I need never fear the devil. I was happily naïve, an innocent in the ways of the world.
On Sundays and important feasts the atmosphere of the little church lacked this womb like comfort, for on those days all parishioners except the bedridden attended Mass. The wealthy merchants flaunted their success by parading with their elegantly dressed families, while the gossips made note of any changes in the attendance or indeed in the attendees - a swollenlip, a swollen belly hiding beneath an uncharacteristically voluminous skirt, an outrageously expensive new headdress - so that all observations might bedebated and settled after the service and for days to come. I basked in the light of my handsome family on these busier days.
I must have long been aware that on Sundays St. Antonin's was also a marriage market, but with that gift we have as children for ignoring what does not affect or fascinate us I had paid no attention to that aspect of the day. Until it was my turn.
I begin my story with my first appearance as a vendiblein that place that was my sanctuary during the week. It was the autumn after my thirteenth birthday.
It had come as no surprise to me that I was expected to wed at a suitable age. I have no memory of a time when I had not understoodt hat as a girl my worth to the family was my marriageability, either to a mortal man or to Christ, and my parents had never spoken of the possibility of my entering a nunnery. Father was a respected member of his guild, a trader in fine cloth and jewels, and a partner in a shipping concern. My marriage should bring him even greater prosperity, or status, or, preferably, both.
I suited my parents' plans. I was pretty, well formed, well behaved, quick witted but not openly opinionated. As presentable as Father's luxury wares. I was willing and eager to be betrothed, believing that my life would only then begin; and the outcome of the Sunday I am about to recount certainly shaped the rest of my life, for good or ill.
That my moon cycle had recently begun had been fairwarning to me that my parents would begin to discuss my betrothal to someone of use to the family. But I had not expected them to take action quite so soon. Mother explained to me in her usual chilly wise that I was now of an age to assume my role in the family, to link it with another successful merchant family, and therefore she saw no reason to delay.
"The money we have spent for the grammar school you attend is better spent elsewhere. You shall not return to it."
She did not willingly waste anything, particularly affection, on me, saving that for my brother John, the eldest. Indeed, she had declared her milk used up by nursing him, and before my birth engaged a wetnurse. My two younger siblings had in their turn been handed over to wetnurses, and when weaned we were all cared for by Nan, a servant who saw to our every need with affection and devotion-but she could not entirely make up forMother's indifference.
Father was my champion. He had insisted on my time at the grammar school, and, unbeknownst to Mother, had also taught me much about thequalities and grades of cloth, as well as how to negotiate a good price and keep accounts. With his encouragement I often hid behind the curtained doorway in our home's undercroft, where he stored and displayed his merchandise, and listened to his negotiations with customers; afterward he would explain histactics. He seemed to enjoy my precocious suggestions. I enjoyed sharing thissecret endeavor with Father and told no one about it, not even my best friend Geoffrey Chaucer.
On that fateful Sunday, I sensed that the household woke holding its collective breath. Father nervously whistled and twice asked Nan the whereabouts of his boots as he paced in the hall. John was ready early and restless as well.
My gown and surcoat had been made for me from Mother's latest castoffs, an azure gown-of escarlatte, the finest wool-and a green surcoat. Unlike her usual instructions to make my gown shapeless, she'd had hermaid fit this one to my blooming breasts and slender waist. Nan's hands trembled as she dressed me with the help of another maid, who was also subdued. No doubt they were anxious that Mother should judge my attire satisfactory and notfind occasion for an angry outburst.
Although I sat quite still while Nan combed my hair I was aquiver with anxiety. I distracted myself by trying to divine what prosperous merchant Father would favor for me. I knew he would not content himself with the most handsome man with the sweetest temperament, for the goal of my marriage was an alliance of our successful house with another, preferably even grander, one. Nor could I hope for someone my own age.
I had once thought that my best friend Geoffrey might be the one, but his parents had recently sent him off to serve as a page in anoble household. Seeing my disappointment, Father had reminded me that though the Chaucers were sufficiently wealthy and respectable, their son was but thirteen years old. Before he might wed, a young man must have a position or inheritance that could support a household, and Geoffrey had neither.
I was distracted from my brooding when Nan motioned forme to turn around so she might check that all was buttoned and tucked. She clapped her hands as I spun about, but when I turned to face her again I sawthat she was crying.
"Nan, what is wrong?"
"You will have a dozen marriage proposals by evening and be wed by Christmas," she cried. "And then I'll not see you again. You'll forget your old Nan."
I hugged her so tightly she squealed and pushed away."I love you too much to forget you," I said, and meant it with all my heart.
"You will undo all my work," she protested, but I could see that she was well pleased. As I stepped into the hall my brother John broke off his pacing to stare, then dropped his gaze, swinging his head slightly as if looking for something on the floor.
"What is it?" I asked.
He looked up again, his eyes drawn to my now-flushed face, then my long neck, which was quite bare.
"I hardly know you, dressed so," he mumbled, turning toward Father, who had joined us.
"For pity's sake, Alice, do not bite your lip." Father drew me aside. "You have nothing to fret about. This is your day to revel in your youth and beauty, eh?" He took one of my hands and bowed toit, kissed it, then stepped back to have a good look at me.
"God's blood," he swore under his breath. He did not smile, but neither did he frown.
"Do I look beautiful, Father?" I asked, confused by his expression.
"You do indeed. Your mother will be proud of you today. We all will be."
"Now will you tell me who will be watching me mostclosely as I pray today, Father? I know you have spoken to someone."
He took off his hat and dabbed his forehead, sweatingdespite the chill in the hall. "You will see him soon enough, Alice, soon enough. Walk meekly and smile sweetly to those who greet you. It will be all the better if there are suitors in reserve, eh?"
He raised his hand to pat my shoulder, as was his wont, but suddenly corrected himself and dropped it. I realized that, like John, hefound me changed and somehow untouchable. I felt hot and sick and wanted to flee.
But Mother had just entered the hall from the solar above. She paused at the door with such an air of grace and command that I felt as if I were my five-year-old sister Mary, grimy and underfoot.
"Walk toward me," Mother ...
Revue de presse :
In beaute first so stood she, makeles.
Hire goodly loking gladed al the prees.
Nas nevere yet seyn thyng to ben preysed derre,
Nor under cloude blak so bright a sterre
-GEOFFREY CHAUCER, Troilus and Criseyde, I, 171-175
When had I a choice to be other than I was? Should I have been more selfish, more stubborn, more rebellious? Have I been too compliant, too quick to give the men in my life what they thought they wanted? Am I a fallen woman, or am I an obedient handmaiden? As a female I was acceptable only as a virginal daughter, a wife, or a widow - unless, of course, I took vows. I have been all three - daughter, wife, widow-and one other, mistress.
My lover is now long dead, and I sense death drawing near for me. I write this for my children, praying that they might understand.
I began my life in a quite acceptable fashion, but the royal family laid such snares in my path that those who would throw the first stone are certain that I can never right myself even now. Yet when had I a choice to be other than I was? This is the argument of my life.
1355
During the week our parish church of St. Antonin on Watling Street, east of St. Paul's in London, hummed with chantry masses. Ourshad long been a parish of wealthy merchants in London who worshipped under thestricture of Christ's teaching that it was easier for a camel to go through theeye of a needle than for a rich man to gain the kingdom of God, and so they bequeathed great sums for masses to be said for their souls after death. The chantry priests were kept busy with almost continuous prayers, for it was an old parish and had buried many wealthy men and their wives, anxious forredemption.
I loved to spend time in St. Antonin's on ordinary days. It was the only place I had permission to go without a companion, a guardian, and I felt safe there. The priests' murmured prayers embraced me, and the familiar paintings and statues of our Savior, His Blessed Mother, and the saints reminded me that as long as I said my prayers and obeyed my elders I need never fear the devil. I was happily naïve, an innocent in the ways of the world.
On Sundays and important feasts the atmosphere of the little church lacked this womb like comfort, for on those days all parishioners except the bedridden attended Mass. The wealthy merchants flaunted their success by parading with their elegantly dressed families, while the gossips made note of any changes in the attendance or indeed in the attendees - a swollenlip, a swollen belly hiding beneath an uncharacteristically voluminous skirt, an outrageously expensive new headdress - so that all observations might bedebated and settled after the service and for days to come. I basked in the light of my handsome family on these busier days.
I must have long been aware that on Sundays St. Antonin's was also a marriage market, but with that gift we have as children for ignoring what does not affect or fascinate us I had paid no attention to that aspect of the day. Until it was my turn.
I begin my story with my first appearance as a vendiblein that place that was my sanctuary during the week. It was the autumn after my thirteenth birthday.
It had come as no surprise to me that I was expected to wed at a suitable age. I have no memory of a time when I had not understoodt hat as a girl my worth to the family was my marriageability, either to a mortal man or to Christ, and my parents had never spoken of the possibility of my entering a nunnery. Father was a respected member of his guild, a trader in fine cloth and jewels, and a partner in a shipping concern. My marriage should bring him even greater prosperity, or status, or, preferably, both.
I suited my parents' plans. I was pretty, well formed, well behaved, quick witted but not openly opinionated. As presentable as Father's luxury wares. I was willing and eager to be betrothed, believing that my life would only then begin; and the outcome of the Sunday I am about to recount certainly shaped the rest of my life, for good or ill.
That my moon cycle had recently begun had been fairwarning to me that my parents would begin to discuss my betrothal to someone of use to the family. But I had not expected them to take action quite so soon. Mother explained to me in her usual chilly wise that I was now of an age to assume my role in the family, to link it with another successful merchant family, and therefore she saw no reason to delay.
"The money we have spent for the grammar school you attend is better spent elsewhere. You shall not return to it."
She did not willingly waste anything, particularly affection, on me, saving that for my brother John, the eldest. Indeed, she had declared her milk used up by nursing him, and before my birth engaged a wetnurse. My two younger siblings had in their turn been handed over to wetnurses, and when weaned we were all cared for by Nan, a servant who saw to our every need with affection and devotion-but she could not entirely make up forMother's indifference.
Father was my champion. He had insisted on my time at the grammar school, and, unbeknownst to Mother, had also taught me much about thequalities and grades of cloth, as well as how to negotiate a good price and keep accounts. With his encouragement I often hid behind the curtained doorway in our home's undercroft, where he stored and displayed his merchandise, and listened to his negotiations with customers; afterward he would explain histactics. He seemed to enjoy my precocious suggestions. I enjoyed sharing thissecret endeavor with Father and told no one about it, not even my best friend Geoffrey Chaucer.
On that fateful Sunday, I sensed that the household woke holding its collective breath. Father nervously whistled and twice asked Nan the whereabouts of his boots as he paced in the hall. John was ready early and restless as well.
My gown and surcoat had been made for me from Mother's latest castoffs, an azure gown-of escarlatte, the finest wool-and a green surcoat. Unlike her usual instructions to make my gown shapeless, she'd had hermaid fit this one to my blooming breasts and slender waist. Nan's hands trembled as she dressed me with the help of another maid, who was also subdued. No doubt they were anxious that Mother should judge my attire satisfactory and notfind occasion for an angry outburst.
Although I sat quite still while Nan combed my hair I was aquiver with anxiety. I distracted myself by trying to divine what prosperous merchant Father would favor for me. I knew he would not content himself with the most handsome man with the sweetest temperament, for the goal of my marriage was an alliance of our successful house with another, preferably even grander, one. Nor could I hope for someone my own age.
I had once thought that my best friend Geoffrey might be the one, but his parents had recently sent him off to serve as a page in anoble household. Seeing my disappointment, Father had reminded me that though the Chaucers were sufficiently wealthy and respectable, their son was but thirteen years old. Before he might wed, a young man must have a position or inheritance that could support a household, and Geoffrey had neither.
I was distracted from my brooding when Nan motioned forme to turn around so she might check that all was buttoned and tucked. She clapped her hands as I spun about, but when I turned to face her again I sawthat she was crying.
"Nan, what is wrong?"
"You will have a dozen marriage proposals by evening and be wed by Christmas," she cried. "And then I'll not see you again. You'll forget your old Nan."
I hugged her so tightly she squealed and pushed away."I love you too much to forget you," I said, and meant it with all my heart.
"You will undo all my work," she protested, but I could see that she was well pleased. As I stepped into the hall my brother John broke off his pacing to stare, then dropped his gaze, swinging his head slightly as if looking for something on the floor.
"What is it?" I asked.
He looked up again, his eyes drawn to my now-flushed face, then my long neck, which was quite bare.
"I hardly know you, dressed so," he mumbled, turning toward Father, who had joined us.
"For pity's sake, Alice, do not bite your lip." Father drew me aside. "You have nothing to fret about. This is your day to revel in your youth and beauty, eh?" He took one of my hands and bowed toit, kissed it, then stepped back to have a good look at me.
"God's blood," he swore under his breath. He did not smile, but neither did he frown.
"Do I look beautiful, Father?" I asked, confused by his expression.
"You do indeed. Your mother will be proud of you today. We all will be."
"Now will you tell me who will be watching me mostclosely as I pray today, Father? I know you have spoken to someone."
He took off his hat and dabbed his forehead, sweatingdespite the chill in the hall. "You will see him soon enough, Alice, soon enough. Walk meekly and smile sweetly to those who greet you. It will be all the better if there are suitors in reserve, eh?"
He raised his hand to pat my shoulder, as was his wont, but suddenly corrected himself and dropped it. I realized that, like John, hefound me changed and somehow untouchable. I felt hot and sick and wanted to flee.
But Mother had just entered the hall from the solar above. She paused at the door with such an air of grace and command that I felt as if I were my five-year-old sister Mary, grimy and underfoot.
"Walk toward me," Mother ...
"A medieval lover's dream novel...the vibrant backdrop and depth of historical details place Campion in the same league as Sharon Kay Penman and Alison Weir."--Romantic Times
"A dynamic fictionalization of the life of Alice Salisbury...an empathetic but realistic portrait of a colorful and, if Campion is to be believed, misunderstood woman."-- Publishers Weekly
"In THE KING’S MISTRESS, Alice Perrers at last comes into her own as a keen observer, not a villain, of English history. The High Middle Ages, the role of women, court intrigue, lust and love, all come alive through Alice's eyes. Yet the panoply of powerful people flaunting their influence and toying with other people's lives sounds amazingly modern. This is a rich novel to enjoy and ponder." --Karen Harper, author of The First Princess of Wales
"From her beginnings as a merchant's wife to her life as King Edward III's powerful mistress, Alice Perrers comes alive in Emma Campion's richly imagined novel. Beautifully written and utterly absorbing, this is an epic story you won't want to put down!" --Michelle Moran, author of Cleopatra's Daughter
"From the mercantile riches of early medieval London to the halls of intrigue in Westminster, Emma Campion weaves a sweeping, sumptuous account of a tumultuous era and of an irresistibly fallible woman, whose bold rise to power comes at an extraordinary price." --C.W. Gortner, author of The Last Queen and The Confessions of Catherine De Medici
"A fascinating, extensively researched look at a much maligned woman. Emma Campion does Alice Perrers the same service that Anya Seton did for Katherine Swynford." --Susan Higginbotham, author of The Stolen Crown
"THE KING’S MISTRESS is an extraordinary novel, exquisitely detailed, epic in proportion, and as lush as the fabrics Emma Campion's Alice Perrers chooses for the queen." --Kate Emerson, author of Secrets of the Tudor Court: Between Two Queens
"Arguably the most notorious 'wicked woman' of the fourteenth century, Alice Perrers has been loathed throughout history as a greedy, manipulative harlot. Emma Campion explores the life of an infamous villainess with skill and understanding, stripping away the layers to reveal the very human, vulnerable woman beneath. Well researched and beautifully written, THE KING’S MISTRESS will give readers much to think about even after they have read the last page." --Ella March Chase, author of The Virgin Queen's Daughter
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- ÉditeurCentury
- Date d'édition2009
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