The King's Concubine

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 and held to it, 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; and 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.

And afterwards?

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 realised, 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 otherwise not real at all 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 sweeping 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 dark lurking fear, for the night, my wedding night, was ominously close, and Master Perrers was no handsome lover.

The Signora came to my room, which was hardly bigger than a large coffer, tucked high under the eaves, and gestured with a scowl. In shift and bare feet I followed her down the stairs. Opening the door to my husband’s bedchamber, she thrust me inside 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 humour in the gruff, accented voice. I obeyed and there was Janyn, in a chamber robe of astonishingly virulent yellow ochre 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, 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.’

This was the first gift I had ever had, given honestly, and I wrapped the luxurious woollen length round my shoulders, marvelling at the quality of its weaving, its softness and warm russet colouring, 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 were pushed across the floor towards me. 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 grunted in what could have been amusement.

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

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 security to you,’ 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 there for ever.

‘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.’

In my later years at the Abbey, driven by a boredom so intense that even study had offered some relief, I had applied myself to my lessons with some fervour, enough to cause Sister Goda to offer a rosary in gratitude to Saint Jude Thaddeus, a saint with a fine reputation for pursuing desperate causes. I could now write with a fair hand.

‘The convents are good for something, then. 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.’

I sat, inveterate curiosity getting the better of me, and as I saw what it was that he wished me to do, I picked up one of his pens and began to mend the end with a sharp blade my new husband kept for the purpose. I had learned the skill, by chance—or perhaps by my own devising—from a woman of dramatic beauty and vicious pleasures, who had once honoured the Abbey with her presence. A woman who had an unfortunate habit of creeping into my mind when I least wished her to be there. This was no time or place to think of her, the much-lauded Countess of Kent.

‘What are those?’ I asked, pointing at the leather purse.

‘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 stick, and its 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.

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 accounts of the week’s business, 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 neither was my shift, arranged neatly from chin to ankles, decorous as any virgin nun.