The King's Concubine. Anne O'Brien

there with his back to me.

      ‘I’ll do it,’ I told him.

      He spun on his heel. ‘An excellent decision.’

      ‘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 began.

      ‘Yes, Mistress Perrers?’ It caused me to laugh softly. It was the first time I had been addressed as such.

      ‘If you rob me, Master Greseley,’ 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 rash business dealing? All I knew was that it created a strange, turbulent euphoria that swept through me from my crown to my ill-shod feet.

      Fool! Idiot girl! I berated myself with increasing fury over the following days. A sensible woman he called you. A business woman. And you let yourself be gulled! He knew how to wind you round his grubby fingers!

      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 it?’ I growled 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 by way of reply. With one gulp he emptied his cup, crammed bread into his mouth, and left the room before I could pester him more.

      ‘Stir this pot,’ Mistress Damiata ordered, handing over a spoon.

      Later that day he was sent into the city on business that kept him away overnight. How could I have been so ingenuous, 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 lovingly on the effect of that large spoonful of wolfsbane on the scrawny frame of the clerk.

      And then Greseley returned. 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, 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 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 stairs 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.

      I held it in my hands, staring at it, as if it might vanish if I looked away. Mine. It was mine. But what was it? And, more important, what did I do with it?

      I ran Greseley to ground early next morning in the kitchen with his feet up on a trestle and a pot of ale beside him.

      ‘It’s all very well—but what am I expected to do with it?’

      He looked at me as if I were stupid. ‘Nothing but enjoy the profits, mistress.’

      ‘I don’t understand.’

      ‘It doesn’t matter whether you do or not. It’s yours.’

      He was watching me closely, as if to test my reaction. I did not see why he should, so I said what I wanted to say.

      ‘It does matter.’ And in that moment it struck home how much it meant to me. ‘It matters to me more than you’ll ever know.’ I glowered. ‘You won’t patronise me, Master Greseley. You will explain it all to me, and then I will understand. The property is mine and I want to know how it works.’ He laughed. He actually laughed, a harsh bark of a noise. ‘Now what?’

      ‘I knew I was right.’

      ‘About what?’

      ‘You, Mistress Perrers. Sit down, and don’t argue. I’m about to give you your first lesson.’

      So I sat and Greseley explained to me the brilliance for a woman in my position of the legal device of ‘enfeoffment to use’. ‘The property is yours, and it remains yours,’ he explained. ‘But you allow others to administer it for you—for a fee, of course. You must choose wisely—a man with an interest in the property so that he will administer it well. Do you understand?’ I nodded. ‘You grant that man legal rights over the land, but you retain de facto control. See? You remain in ultimate ownership but need do nothing toward the day-to-day running of it.’

      ‘And can I make the agreement between us as long or as short as I wish?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘And I suppose I need a man of law to oversee this for me?’

      ‘It would be wise.’

      ‘What is this property that I now own, but do not own?’

      ‘Living accommodations—with shops below.’

      ‘Can I look at it?’

      ‘Of course.’

      What else did I need to ask? ‘Was there any money leftover from the transaction?’

      ‘You don’t miss much, do you?’ He tipped out the contents of the purse at his belt and pushed across the board a small number of coins.

      ‘You said I needed a man of law.’ He regarded me without expression. ‘I suppose you would be my man of law.’

      ‘I certainly could. Next time, Mistress Perrers, we will work in partnership.’

      ‘Will there be a next time?’

      ‘Oh, I think so.’ I thought the slide of his glance had a depth of craftiness.

      ‘Is that good or bad—to work in partnership?’

      Greseley’s pointed nose sniffed at my ignorance. He knew I could not work alone. But it seemed good to me. What strides I had made. I was a wife of sorts, even if I spent my nights checking Janyn’s tally sticks and columns of figures, and now I was a property owner. A little ripple of pleasure brushed along the skin of my forearms as the idea engaged my mind and my emotions. I liked it. And in my first deliberate business transaction, I pushed the coins back toward him.

      ‘You are now my man of law, Master Greseley.’

      ‘I am indeed, Mistress Perrers.’

      The coins were swept into his purse with alacrity.

      And where did I keep the evidence of my ownership? I kept it hidden on my person between shift and overgown, tied with a cord, except when