The King’s Concubine: A Novel of Alice Perrers (6 page)

“I wish it.” Master Perrers continued leafing through the pages of a small ledger he had taken from his pocket.

“Then choose a daughter of one of our merchant families. A girl with a dowry and a family with some standing. Jesu! Are you not listening?” She raised her fists as if she might strike him. “This one is not a suitable wife for a man of your importance.”

Did I think that he did not rule the roost? On this occasion I could not have been more mistaken. He looked briefly at me. “I will have her. I will wed her. That is the end of the matter.”

I, of course, was not asked. I stood in this three-cornered dialogue yet not a part of it, the bone squabbled over by two dogs. Except that Master Perrers did not squabble. He simply stated his intention until his sister closed her mouth and let it be. So I was wed in the soiled skirts in which I chopped the onions and gutted the fish. Clearly there was no money earmarked to be spent on a new wife. Sullen and resentful, shocked into silence, certainly no joyful bride, I complied because I must. I was joined in matrimony with Janyn Perrers on the steps of the church, with witnesses to attest the deed. Signora Damiata, grim faced and silent; Master Greseley, because he was available, with no expression at all. A few words muttered over us by a bored priest in an empty ritual, and I was a wife.

There was little to show for it.

No celebration, no festivity, no recognition of my change in position in the household. Not even a cup of ale and a bride cake. It was, I realized, nothing more than a business agreement, and since I had brought nothing to it, there was no need to celebrate it. All I recall was the rain soaking through my hood as we stood and exchanged vows and the shrill cries of lads who fought amongst themselves for the handful of coin that Master Perrers scattered as a reluctant sign of his goodwill. Oh, and I recall Master Perrers’s fingers gripping hard on mine, the only reality in this ceremony that was not at all real to me.

Was it better than being a Bride of Christ? Was marriage better than servitude? To my mind there was little difference. After the ceremony I was directed to sweep down the cobwebs that festooned the storerooms in the cellar. I took out my bad temper with my brush, making the spiders run for cover.

There was no cover for me. Where would I run?

And beneath my anger was a lurking fear, for the night, my wedding night, was ominously close, and Master Perrers was no handsome lover.

The Signora came to my room that was hardly bigger than a large coffer, tucked high under the eaves, and gestured with a scowl. In a shift and bare feet I followed her down the stairs. Opening the door to my husband’s bedchamber, she thrust me inside, still without a word, and closed it at my back. I stood just within, not daring to move. My throat was so dry I could barely swallow. Apprehension was a rock in my belly, and fear of my ignorance filled me to the brim. I did not want to be here. I did not want this. I could not imagine why Master Perrers would want me, plain and unfinished and undowered as I was. Silence closed ’round me—except for a persistent scratching like a mouse trapped behind the plastered wall.

In that moment I was a coward. I admit it. I closed my eyes.

Still nothing.

So I squinted, only to find my gaze resting on the large bed with its dust-laden hangings to shut out the night air. Holy Virgin! To preserve intimacy for the couple enclosed within. Closing my eyes again, I prayed for deliverance.

What, exactly, would he want me to do?

“You can open your eyes now. She’s gone.”

There was humor in the accented voice. I obeyed and there was Janyn, in a chamber robe of astonishingly virulent yellow ocher that encased him from neck to bony ankles, seated at a table covered with piles of documents and heaped scrolls. At his right hand was a leather purse spilling out strips of wood, and another smaller pouch containing silver coin. And to his left a branch of good-quality candles that lit the atmosphere with gold as the dust motes danced. But it was the pungent aroma—of dust and parchment and vellum, and perhaps the ink that he had been stirring—that made my nose wrinkle. Intuitively I knew that it was the smell of careful record keeping and of wealth. It almost dispelled my fear.

“Come in. Come nearer to the fire.”

I took a step, warily. At least he was not about to leap on me quite yet. There was no flesh in sight on either of us.

“Here.” He stretched toward the coffer at his side and scooped up the folds of a mantle. “You’ll be cold. Take it. It’s yours.”

Unlike Countess Joan’s cynical offerings, this was the first gift I had ever had, given honestly. I wrapped the luxurious woolen length ’round my shoulders, marveling at the quality of its weaving, its softness and warm russet coloring, wishing I had a pair of shoes. He must have seen me shuffling on the cold boards.

“Put these on!”

A pair of leather shoes of an incongruous red was pushed across the floor toward me. The shoes were enormous, but soft and warm from his own feet as I slid mine in with a sigh of pleasure.

“Are you a virgin?” he asked conversationally.

My pleasure dissipated like mist in morning sun, my blood running as icily cold as my feet, and I shivered. A goose walking over my grave. I did not want this old man to touch me. The last thing I wanted was to share a bed with him and have him fumble against my naked flesh with his ink-stained fingers, their untrimmed nails scraping and scratching.

“Yes,” I managed, hoping my abhorrence was not obvious, but Master Perrers was watching me with narrowed eyes. How could it not be obvious? I felt my face flame with humiliation.

“Of course you are,” my husband said with a laconic nod. “Let me tell you something that might take that anxious look from your face. I’ll not trouble you. It’s many a year since I’ve found comfort in a woman.” I had never heard him string so many words together.

“Then why did you wed me?” I asked.

Since I had nothing else to give, I had thought it must be a desire for young flesh in his bed. So if not that…Master Perrers looked at me as if one of his ledgers had spoken. Then he grunted in what could have been amusement.

“Someone to tend my bones in old age, my dear. A wife to shut my sister up from nagging me to wed a merchant’s daughter whose family would demand a weighty settlement.”

Ah…! I sighed. I had asked for the truth, had I not? I would nurse him and demand nothing in return. It was not flattering.

“Marriage will give you security,” he continued as if he read my thoughts. And then: “Have you a young lover in mind?”

“No!” Such directness startled me. “Well, not yet. I don’t know any young men.”

He chuckled. “Good. Then we shall rub along well enough, I expect. When you do know a young man you can set your fancy on, let me know. I’ll make provision for you when I am dead,” he remarked.

He went back to his writing. I stood and watched, not knowing what to do or say now that he had told me what he did not want from me. Should I leave? His gnarled hand with its thick fingers moved up and down the columns, rows of figures growing from his pen, columns of marks in heavy black ink spreading from top to bottom. They intrigued me. The minutes passed. The fire settled. Well, I couldn’t stand here forever.

“What do I do now, Master Perrers?”

He looked up as if surprised that I was still there. “Do you wish to sleep?”

“No.”

“I suppose we must do something. Let me…” He peered at me with his pale eyes. “Pour two cups of ale and sit there.”

I poured and took the stool he pushed in my direction.

“You can write?”

“Yes.”

With Joan’s contemptuous advice in mind, I had applied myself to my lessons with more fervor, enough to cause Sister Goda to offer a rosary to Saint Jude Thaddeus, a saint with a fine reputation for pursuing desperate causes, in gratitude for this holy miracle. I could now write with a fair hand.

“The convents are good for something.…Can you write and tally numbers?”

“No.”

“Then you will learn! There.” He reversed the ledger and pushed it toward me across the table. “Copy that list there. I’ll watch you. Do it.”

I sat, inveterate curiosity getting the better of me.

“What are those?” I asked. I pointed at the leather purse as I picked
up one of his pens and began to mend the end with a sharp blade he kept for the purpose. Countess Joan had done me one favor.

“Tally sticks.”

“What do they do? What are the notches for?”

“They record income, debts paid, and debts owed,” he informed me, watching me to ensure I didn’t destroy his pen. “The wood is split down the middle, each party to the deal keeping half. They must match.”

“Clever,” I observed, picking up one of the tallies to inspect it. It was beautifully made out of a hazel twig, and the sole purpose to record ownership of money.

“Never mind those. Write the figures!”

And I did, under his eye for the first five minutes, and then he left me to it, satisfied.

We passed the strangest night. My blood settled to a quiet hum of pleasure as the figures grew to record a vast accumulation of gold coin, and when we had finished the record of the accounts of the week, my husband instructed me to get into the vast bed and go to sleep. I fell into it, and into sleep to the sound of the scratching pen. Did my husband join me when his work was done? I think he did not. The bed linen was not disturbed, and nor was my shift, arranged neatly from chin to ankles, decorous as that of any virgin nun.

It was not what I expected, but it could have been much worse.

I awoke abruptly to silence. It was still very early, I presumed, and dark because the bed curtains had been drawn around me. When I peeped out it was to see that the fire had burned itself out, the cups and ledgers tidied away, and the room was empty. I was at a loss, my role spectacularly unclear. Sitting back against the pillows, reluctant to leave the warmth of the bed, I looked at my hands, turning them, seeing the unfortunate results of proximity to icy cold water, hot dishes, grimy tasks. They were now the hands of Mistress Perrers. I gasped in a moment of grim humor. Was I now mistress of the household? If I was, I would have to usurp Signora Damiata’s domain. I tried to imagine myself walking into the parlor and informing the Signora what I might
wish to eat, the length of cloth I might wish to purchase to fashion a new gown. And then I imagined her response.

I dared not!

But it is your right!

Undeniably! Tomorrow, perhaps. Next week, even. But not right at this moment. My sense of self-preservation was always keen. And so I redirected my thoughts to a matter of more immediacy. What would I say to Master Perrers this morning? How would I address him? Was I truly his wife if I was still a virgin?

With nothing better to do, I wrapped myself in my new mantle, returned to my own room, and dressed as the maidservant I still seemed to be, before descending the stairs to the kitchen to start the tasks for the new day. The fire would have to be laid, the oven heated. If I walked quickly and quietly through the house, I would not draw attention to myself from any quarter. Such was my plan, except that my clumsy shoes clattered on the stair, and a voice called out.

“Alice.”

I considered bolting, as if I had not heard.

“Come here, Alice. Close the door.”

I gripped hard on my courage. Had he not been kind last night? I redirected my footsteps, and there my husband of less than twenty-four hours sat behind his desk, head bent over his ledgers, pen in hand, in the room where he dealt with the endless stream of borrowers. It was no different from any other morning when I might bring him ale and bread. I curtsied. Habits were very difficult to break.

He looked up. “Did you sleep well?”

“No, sir.”

“Too much excitement, I expect.” I might have suspected him of laughing at me, but there was no change of expression on his dolorous features. He held out a small leather pouch, the strings pulled tight. I looked at it—and then at him.

“Take it.”

“Do you wish me to purchase something for you, sir?”

“It is yours.” Since I still did not move, he placed it on the desk and pushed it across the wood toward me.

“Mine…?”

It contained coin. And far more, as I could estimate, than was due to me as a maidservant. Planting his elbows on the desk, folding his hands and resting his chin on them, Janyn Perrers regarded me gravely, speaking slowly, as if I might be lacking in wit.

“It is a bride gift, Alice. A morning gift. Is that not the custom in this country?”

“I don’t know.” How would I?

“It is, if you will, a gift in recompense for the bride’s virginity.”

I frowned. “I don’t qualify for it, then. You did not want mine.”

“The fault was mine, not yours. You have earned a bride gift by tolerating the whims and weaknesses of an old man.” I think my cheeks were as scarlet as the seals on the documents before him, so astonished was I that he would thank me. I regretted that my words had seemed so judgmental of him. “Take it, Alice. You look bewildered.” At last what might have been a smile touched his mouth.

“I am, sir. I have done nothing to make me worthy of such a gift.”

“You are my wife and we will keep the custom.”

“Yes, sir.” I curtsied.

“One thing…” He brushed the end of his quill pen uneasily over the mess of scrolls and lists. “It would please me if you would not talk about…”

“About our night together,” I supplied for him, compassion stirred by his gentleness. “That is between you and me, sir.”

“And our future nights…”

“I will not speak of them either.” After all, who would I tell?

“Thank you. If you would now fetch me ale. And tell the Signora that I will be going out in an hour.…”

“Yes, sir.” So. Much as normal.

“And it will please me if you will call me Janyn.”

“Yes, sir.”

I stood in the whitewashed passage outside the door and leaned back against the wall as if my legs needed the support. The purse was not a light one. It moved in my fingers, coins sliding with a comforting chink
as I weighed it in my hand. I had never seen so much money all in one place in the whole of my life. And it was mine. Whatever I was or was not, I was no longer a penniless novice.