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

had already made my decision. There really was no other to be made. It would be a roof over my head and food in my belly, and far preferable to life on the streets or docks as a common whore. Should I have turned up on the doorstep of my property in Gracechurch Street and demanded entry? Today I would have done just that—but then I was too inexperienced, too ill-prepared to fight for my legal claim. Besides, I looked no better than a kitchen wench. “Back to St. Mary’s,” I said. “They’ll take me in. I’ll stay there and wait for better times. Something will turn up.”
    Greseley nodded. “Not a bad idea, all in all. But you’ll need this. Here…” He rummaged in the purse at his belt and brought out two gold coins. “I’ll return these to you. They should persuade the Abbess to open the doors to you for a little time, at least. Remember, though: You now owe me. I want it back.”
    “Where do I find you?” I shrieked, coarse as a fishwife, as he put distance between us, the proof of ownership of the manor at West Peckham stowed in his tunic.
    “Try the Tabard. At Southwark.”
    That was as much as I got.
    So I went back to the convent, where I had vowed I would never return, wheedling a ride in a wagon empty of all but the rank whiff of fish. I might own a manor and a house in London—I had left both precious documents in Greseley’s care—but I was in debt to the tune of two gold nobles to my partner in business. And though those coinsopened the doors of the Abbey to me, they bought me no luxury. It was made clear to me that I must earn my keep, and so I found myself joining the ranks of the conversa : a lay sister toiling for the benefit of the Brides of Christ. Perhaps it was the stink of salt cod clinging to my skirts that worked against me.
    Why did I accept my diminished status?
    Because the sanctuary the convent offered me was a temporary measure. I knew it deep within me. I had supped in the outside world and found it to my taste. In those days of silent labor, a determination was born in me. I would never become a nun. I would never wed again at anyone’s dictates. At some point in the future, in Greseley’s clever hands, my land would bring me enough coin to allow me to live as a femme sole in my own house with my own bed and good clothing and servants at my beck and call.
    I liked the image. It spurred me on as I scrubbed the nuns’ habits and beat the stains from their wimples to restore them to pristine whiteness. I would prove Countess Joan wrong. I would make something of my life beyond the governance of others, neither nun nor wife nor whore. I would amount to something in my own right. But for now I was safe in the familiar surroundings of the Abbey, accepting the unchanging routine of work and prayer.
    “ I’ll stay there and wait for better times ,” I had said to Greseley.
    And I would. But not, I prayed as my arms throbbed from wielding the heavy hoe amongst the Abbey cabbages, for too long.
    I regretted the loss of my warm mantle.

Chapter Three
    “S he’s here. She’s come.” The whispers rustled like a brisk wind through a field of oats.
    It was Vespers. We entered the Abbey church, the hush of habits and soft shoes a quiet sound against the paving, and we knelt, ranks of black veils and white wimples, I in a coarse fustian overkirtle and hood with the rest of the conversa . Ordinarily the mind of every sister, choir or lay, centered on the need for God’s grace in a world of transgression. But not tonight. The sin of self-indulgence was rife, bright as the candle flames. Excitement was tangible, shivering in the air. For in the bishop’s own chair, placed to one side of the High Altar, sat the Queen of England.
    From my lowly place in the choir stalls I could see nothing of Her Majesty; nor could I even hazard a guess as to why she would so honor us. The service proceeded as if that carved chair were unoccupied, and once the final blessing was given, the nuns and