In the Master's Bed. Blythe Gifford

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      When he saw them, Duncan dropped his principal’s demeanour. He embraced the taller man, slapping his back, then broke and put up his fists to engage the shorter, stockier man in a mock battle.

      Here again, at last, was the exuberant man she had met on the road. She blinked at the transformation. These men must be special to him. She eyed them carefully, trying not to call her interest jealousy.

      ‘Oust fettal?’

      ‘Ahreet, marra. Owz it gan?’

      ‘Bay gud!’

      Her ear had learned to follow Duncan’s tongue, but she could not understand this babble. They spoke the tongue of the north, though she thought she caught a Latin word or two.

      ‘Come,’ Duncan said, finally, ‘the house is settled for the day. Let’s celebrate before the term starts and the beadles start patrolling the alehouses.’

      ‘Get your gittern,’ the shorter one said.

      ‘I’ll do it,’ she said, without waiting for permission, and ran up to Duncan’s room.

      As she came down the stairs, cradling the precious instrument, the shorter man, with reddish hair, turned. ‘And who’s this?’

      Duncan glanced over his shoulder. ‘That’s Little John,’

      She stuck out her chin and her hand.

      He took it, seeing her as Duncan did, blind to the girl beneath the tunic. ‘Henry. Of Warcop.’

      The taller one had stooped shoulders, thinning hair and a narrow face. ‘Geoffrey of Carlisle.’ He turned back to Duncan. ‘Opening a grammar school, eh?’

      Duncan sighed. ‘It’s a story to share over a tankard.’ She handed him the gittern, careful not to brush his fingers. He barely glanced at her. ‘Come. I want the news from home.’

      She cleared her throat, then coughed.

      ‘Well, come along then, whelp,’ Duncan said over his shoulder as they walked out of the door.

      She scampered after them and kept her mouth shut as they settled around a corner table and sipped their ale.

      She studied them as if they were a Latin lesson, these friends of Duncan’s, sprawled around the table. Each staked a space with his elbows. She glanced below. While her knees were neatly matched, their legs were spread wide.

      Opposite her, Duncan’s legs were as wide as if he had mounted a horse. She let her knees fall apart a hand’s breadth. The linen roll slipped lower and wedged between her legs. She snapped her knees together and glanced up, quickly, but no one was watching.

      She put her elbow on the table and leaned on her forearm, carving herself a few more inches of the tabletop. It brought her within touching distance of Duncan. She tightened her fingers, but didn’t pull back. She would not shrink in the corner like a girl.

      Below, out of sight, she crossed her legs.

      ‘This dry-bellied goat’s betrothed,’ Henry began, nodding at Geoffrey, then swatting the serving woman.

      The woman assessed him with a look he didn’t see, but her eyes met Jane’s as she set the other tankards on the table.

      Jane looked down, as if fascinated by the oat flake floating in the golden brew.

      ‘I can scarce believe it,’ Duncan said. ‘I thought you’d stay here long enough to become chancellor.’

      ‘What could a woman like Mary see in you?’ Henry said.

      Jane blinked, wondering where she could duck when the first blow was thrown.

      Instead, Geoffrey laughed. ‘You’re just jealous no woman will look at you unless you pay her.’

      Shocked, Jane watched Henry grin. It was a foreign tongue, this language men spoke among themselves, harder to decipher than the dialect. An insult might be cause for a fight or a smile, depending on whose lips spoke it. And how.

      ‘You’re giving the lad the wrong impression of me,’ Geoffrey said.

      ‘Because you’ve foolishly fallen into a woman’s clutches?’ Henry said.

      Next to her, Duncan shook his head. ‘You’re the lucky one, Geoffrey. Betrothed to a woman from a good family who thinks you’re the earth’s master.’ He lifted his mug in a toast.

      He had never spoken of marriage before. Was there a note of longing in his voice? No, she thought not. He had taken an oath to teach here, in this world without women.

      ‘And she’ll wait for you?’ Henry asked.

      Geoffrey sighed. ‘Until next spring. When the year’s over, I’ll have earned a master’s. Then I can make my way clerking in Carlisle, eh?’

      ‘If Carlisle is still there.’ Duncan’s voice was grim.

      Geoffrey and Henry exchanged glances. ‘Sorry,’ Geoffrey said.

      ‘About your fadder,’ Henry added.

      His father? He had said nothing of his father. ‘What about him?’

      All three looked at her and she wished she had not asked.

      ‘Scots took him,’ Duncan answered, finally. ‘And they want a fine ransom before they’ll send him back.’ Then he shook his head, which seemed to mean don’t talk about it.

      He turned back to Geoffrey and Henry. ‘And yours?’ he asked.

      ‘The city’s walls are strong,’ Geoffrey answered.

      ‘Spared,’ Henry said. ‘They turned back just north of us.’

      ‘Pickering thinks I can persuade Parliament to supply the troops and taxes we need.’ Duncan swallowed a sigh along with his ale. ‘And the ransom money as well.’

      Her eyes widened in awe. So the fate of his father and his homeland now rested on his shoulders. No wonder he furrowed his brow. She wished she could bring back his laugh.

      ‘You can do it,’ Geoffrey said. ‘You’ve a nightingale’s tongue, eh?’

      ‘It shouldn’t take a clever tongue,’ he answered. ‘The truth should be enough.’

      No one answered him. Even Jane knew that truth was seldom enough.

      Geoffrey turned to her. ‘You’re not from the north, are you, Little John?’

      She shook her head. ‘Bedford.’ The answer came easier now.

      ‘Second son?’ Henry again.

      Duncan answered for her. ‘Little John’s an orphan.’

      ‘I’ve only a sister.’ There were no first-born sons at Cambridge. СКАЧАТЬ