The King’s Concubine: A Novel of Alice Perrers by Anne O'Brien Read Free Book Online Page B

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 pickedup 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 mightwish to