by Anne O'Brien
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.
But what was I? It seemed I was neither flesh nor fowl. Here I stood in a house that was not mine, a wife but a virgin, with the knowledge that my marriage vows would make absolutely no difference to my role in the household. I would wager the whole of my sudden windfall on it. Signora Damiata would never retreat before my authority. I would never sit at the foot of the table.
The scuff of leather against stone came to my ears and made me look up.
I was not the only one occupying the narrow space. Detaching himself from a similar stance, farther along in the shadows, Master Greseley walked softly toward me. Since there was an air of secrecy about him—of complicity almost—I hid the pouch within the folds of my skirt. Within an arm’s length of me he stopped and leaned his narrow shoulder blades on the wall beside me, arms folded across his chest, staring at the
opposite plasterwork in a manner that was neither companionable nor hostile. Here was a man adept through long practice at masking his intentions. As for his thoughts—they were buried so deep beneath his impassivity that it would take an earthquake to dislodge them.
“You weren’t going to hide it under your pillow, were you?” he inquired in a low voice.
“Hide what?” I replied, clutching the purse tightly.
“The morning gift he’s just given you.”
“How do you…?”
“Of course I know. Who keeps the books in this household? It was no clever guesswork.” A sharp glance slid in my direction before fixing on the wall again. “I would hazard that the sum was payment for something that was never bought.”
Annoyance sharpened my tongue. I would not be intimidated by a clerk. “That is entirely between Master Perrers and myself.”
“Of course it is.” How smoothly unpleasant he was. Like mutton fat floating on water after the roasting pans had been scoured.
“And nothing to do with you.”
He bowed his head. “Absolutely nothing. I am here only to give you some good advice.”
Turning my head, I looked directly at him. “Why?”
He did not return my regard. “I have no idea.”
“That makes no sense.”
“No. It doesn’t. It’s against all my tenets of business practice. But even so…Let’s just say that I am drawn to advise you.”
I thought about this. Why not? There was no compulsion to accept it. “So what is your advice?”
“I’ve already told you. Don’t hide the money under your pillow or anywhere else in this house. She’ll find it.”
“Who?” Although I knew the answer well enough.
“The Signora. She has a nose for it, as keen as any mouse finding the cheese safe stored in a cupboard. And when she sniffs it out, you’ll not see it again.”
I thought about this as well. “I thought she didn’t know.”
“Is that what Janyn told you?”
“Well—not exactly.” But the implication had been there.
“Of course she does. Nothing happens in this place without her knowledge. She knows you have money, and she doesn’t agree. Any profits are the inheritance of her nephew.”
The absent heir, learning the business in Lombardy. I could well believe it. “Since you’re keen to offer advice, what can I do? Short of digging a hole in the garden…”
“Which she’d find…”
“A cranny in the eaves?”
“She’d find that too.”
“So?” I was beginning to be irritated with his smug assumption of knowledge.
“Give it to me.”
Which promptly dispersed my irritation. I laughed, disbelieving. “Do you take me for a fool?”
“I take you for a sensible woman. Give it to me.” He actually held out his hand, palm up. His fingers were blotched with ink.
“I will not.”
He sighed as if his patience were strained. “Give it to me and I’ll use it to make you a rich woman.”
“Why would you?”
“Listen to me, Mistress Alice!” I was right about the patience. His voice fell to a low hiss on the syllables of my name. “What keeps its value and lasts forever?”
“Gold.”
“No.”
“It does!”
“Gold can be stolen—and then you have nothing.”
“Jewels, then.”
“Same argument. Think about it!”
“Then since you are so clever…”
“Land!” The clerk’s beady eyes gleamed. “Property. That’s the way to do it. It’s a generous purse he gave you. Give it to me and I will buy you property.”
For a moment I listened to him, seduced by the glitter in his gaze that was now holding mine. His nose almost twitched with the prospect. And then sense took hold. “But I cannot look after property! What would I do with it?”
“You don’t have to look after it. There are ways and means. Give me your morning gift and I will show you how it’s done.”
Well! It deserved some consideration.…“What would you ask in return?” I asked sharply.
“An excellent question. I knew you had the makings of a businesswoman. I’ll let you know. But it will not be too great a price.”
I looked at him. What a cold fish he was. “Why are you doing this?”
“I think you have possibilities.”
“As a landowner?”
“Why not?”
I didn’t have a reply. I stood in silence, the coins in my hand seemingly growing heavier by the moment. I tossed the little bag and caught it.
“We don’t have all day!” Greseley’s admonition broke into my thoughts. “That’s my offer. Take it or leave it. But if you think to keep it safe within these walls, then it will be gone before the end of the week.”
“And I should trust you.”
“Yes.”
Would I trust him? Trust had not figured highly in my life, but this strange man with his love for figures and documents, seals and agreements, had sought me out and made me this most tempting of offers. Should I hand over to him all I owned in the world? It was a risk. A huge risk. A gamble when I did not even know what the odds were. The arguments, conflicting, destructive of one another, rattled back and forth in my brain.
Say no. Keep it for yourself. Hide it where no one can find it.
Take the risk! Become an owner of property.
He’ll take it and keep it for himself.
Trust him!
I can’t!
Why not?
My exchange of views came to an abrupt halt when the clerk pushed himself upright and began to walk away. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you!”
And there was the final blast of the voice in my head. You can’t do this on your own, Alice, but Greseley can. This clever little louse has the knowledge. Learn from him! Use him to your own advantage!
Well, I would. “Stop!” I shouted.
He did, but did not return. He stood there, his back to me, waiting.
“I’ll do it!” I called.
He spun on his heel to face me again. “Clever girl!”
“How long will it take?”
“A few days.”
I held up the pouch. Hesitated. Then dropped it into his outstretched palm. I was still wondering if I was an idiot.
“If you rob me…” I remarked.
“Yes, Mistress Perrers?”
It caused me to laugh softly. It was the first time I had been addressed as such.
“If you rob me,” I whispered, “I advise you to employ a taster before you eat or drink in this house.”
“There’ll be no need, mistress.” From his bland smugness, he thought I was making empty threats. I was not so sure. A good dose of wolfsbane masked by a cup of warmed ale would take out the strongest man. I would not care to be robbed.
The purse vanished into Greseley’s sleeve, and Greseley vanished along the corridor.
Would I live to regret this business dealing that I had just leaped into? All I knew was that it created a strange, turbulent euphoria that swept through me from my crown to my ill-shod feet.
At some time in the following day, my room was searched. It was not done with any degree of discretion or finesse, but a rough tumbling of my pallet and bedcovers, a riffling through the coffer that contained a spare shift and a pair of stockings. For the rest of the day Signora Damiata stomped about her business. The look she cast me was not friendly.
I know you have it! I’ll get my hands on it; you mark my words.
Greseley frowned, his spiky brows meeting over his unprepossessing nose. Janyn did not notice. Meanwhile, I preserved a perfectly bland insouciance.
Fool! Idiot girl! I berated myself with increasing fury over the following days. A sensible woman, he called you. A businesswoman. And you let yourself be gulled. He knew how to dupe you, to wind you ’round his grubby fingers!
&nb
sp; By God he did! By the end of the week I knew I had seen the last of my morning gift. Greseley was elusive, exchanging not one word with me and avoiding my attempts to catch his eye. And when my impatience overcame my discretion…“What have you done with…” I hissed in his ear as he slid onto a stool to break his fast.
“Pass the jug of ale, if you please, mistress,” was all I got. With one gulp he emptied his cup, crammed bread into his mouth, and left the room before I could pester him further.
“Stir this pot,” Signora Damiata ordered, handing over a spoon.
So there was no chance of my hunting him down, and later that day he was sent into the city on business that kept him away overnight.
How could I have been so ingenuous as to trust a man I barely knew? I had lost it. I had lost it all! I would never see one of those coins again, and my misery festered, even though I was kept hopping from morning to night. My mind began to linger on the effect of a large spoonful of wolfsbane on the scrawny frame of the clerk.
And then Greseley returned. Well, he wouldn’t get away with ignoring me this time. Was he suffering from guilt? If he was, it did nothing to impair his appetite, as he chomped his way through slices of beef and half a flat bread, completely undisturbed by my scowling at him across the board.
“We need to talk,” I whispered, nudging him between his shoulder blades when I smacked a dish of herring in front of him.
His answering stare was cold and clear and without expression.
“Careful, girl!” snapped the Signora. “That dish! We’re not made of money!”
Greseley continued to eat with relish, but as I cleared the dishes, he produced a roll of a document from the breast of his tunic, like a coney magicked from the sleeve of a second-rate jongleur, and tapped it against his fingertips before sliding it into an empty jug standing on the hearth, out of the Signora’s line of sight. It was not out of mine. My fingers itched to take it. I could sense it, like a burning brand below my heart.
At last. The kitchen was empty: Janyn closed the door on himself and his ledgers, the Signora climbed the stair to her chamber, and I took the scroll from its hiding place and carried it to my room. Unrolling it carefully, I read the black script. No easy task! The legal words meant nothing to me, the phrases hard on my understanding, the script small and close written. But there was no doubting it. He had done what he had promised. There was my name: Alice Perrers. I was the owner of property in Gracechurch Street in the city of London.
