In the Master's Bed. Blythe Gifford

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      ‘No. It’s, uh, my injury.’

      She waited for questions, but no one asked. Duncan was studying her, assessing. She dropped her eyes to her lap, uncrossed her legs and stretched them out beneath the table, knees still tight together.

      Perhaps she needed to tell a longer story to be convincing.

      ‘You see,’ she began, ‘a horse kicked me, when I was six—’

      ‘No, John. You don’t have to—’ Duncan’s voice had an urgency to it. His palm covered her arm. Her blood ran faster.

      She held her ground. She must explain, create an excuse, some reason that she was not like them. ‘Right here, in the ribs.’ She pulled her arm away to show them. ‘And they never healed properly, so I cannot wield a sword…’

      Her words trailed off. Geoffrey and Henry stared at their ale, but Duncan had burst into an inexplicable grin. ‘Just your ribs, you say?’

      ‘And around there. I’ve got to keep them wrapped and sometimes, when it’s damp, they ache—’

      Suddenly, Duncan yelled, ‘Gurn!’

      Jane jumped. Was it a warning? Danger? Should they run?

      But instead, the three men started making faces. Distorted, silly, grotesque faces.

      She sipped her ale, wide-eyed. Finally, all three ugly faces froze. Then, Duncan and Geoffrey pointed at Henry and they all laughed and Henry raised his hand for the alewife.

      Jane felt as if she were five again, watching the fearsome beasts prowl their cages in the Tower menagerie, unable to decipher their wild behaviour. ‘What was that?’

      They answered in chorus, ‘Gurning.’

      ‘What’s that?’

      Now, they stared as if she were the odd one.

      ‘Making faces.’

      ‘The worse, the better.’

      ‘Worst one buys the next round.’

      ‘Ah.’ She nodded as if what they said made sense. She had expected men to be serious, not silly.

      ‘Although,’ Geoffrey said, ‘now that Duncan is principal, he’s too dignified to win.’

      ‘Or he just doesn’t want to pay up,’ Henry added, as he gave the returning alewife a coin.

      Duncan’s smile was indulgent. ‘Don’t they do this where you come from?’

      She shook her head. In the world of women, no one made ugly faces for fun.

      A girl must be pretty and nice and smile, no matter what her feelings. Feelings might be shared with other women, but in front of a man a woman was always pleasant.

      Men, it seemed, had different rules.

      She suspected Duncan had called the challenge to stop her from saying any more about her injury. In a man’s world, it seemed, wearing ugly faces was acceptable, but sharing something painful and personal was not.

      She threw down the gauntlet. ‘Gurn.’

      Jane sucked in her cheeks, crossed her eyes, lifted her elbows like a scarecrow, then looked to see what the others had done.

      Henry and Geoffrey were pointing at her and she couldn’t help but grin.

      Duncan, however, was not. ‘Cheat!’ he said. ‘He used his arms. It’s face only.’

      She stuck her tongue out at him, suddenly hoping she hadn’t won. She had few farthings to spend on ale.

      ‘Challenger pays!’ Geoffrey called out, waving for another round.

      Duncan shrugged and nodded.

      She smiled. A game, she reminded herself. It was only a game. But she had played it like a man.

      

      They did not leave until several rounds later, after a number of choruses of a drinking song Duncan seemed to know well. Jane hummed along to the refrain, a series of nonsense syllables, suitable to be sung late at night when the singers could no longer remember the words.

      They stumbled back to the hostel on dark streets. Jane thought she might fly. She had been accepted in the company of men. In front of her, Henry sang loudly enough to wake the dead.

      Beside her, Duncan tried to sound stern. ‘Shut yer maup. You’ll bring the beadles down on us with your bellowing.’

      Geoffrey was trying to shush him, too, but he could no longer pronounce ‘shush’.

      Then, ahead of them, she saw a woman, no older, surely, than Jane herself. A girl, then.

      ‘Here, wench,’ Henry yelled. ‘Do you like my song?’

      She waved, but didn’t stop. ‘Not tonight.’

      ‘Hey!’ he shouted. ‘I asked you a question.’

      She kept walking.

      ‘I’d ignore you if I were her,’ Duncan said, reaching out to pull him back. ‘You sound like a croaking toad.’

      But Henry was not to be dissuaded. ‘Answer me!’ he called.

      He wrenched his arm from Duncan, then ran ahead and grabbed the girl, pushing her against a wall. The others moved in, Jane with them, close enough to recognise the serving woman from the alehouse.

      No decent woman would be out alone.

      Jane saw both fright and anger in her stance.

      The anger won. ‘You all sound like toads to me.’

      ‘Hey!’ Geoffrey said, stumbling towards her. ‘Don’t insult my friends.’

      ‘Kiss her, Geoffrey!’ Henry said, pushing him at the girl. ‘Your betrothed won’t know.’

      ‘That’s enough.’ Duncan said. ‘If we rouse the Proctor, I’ll have to explain this all to the Chancellor.’

      But Henry was beyond persuasion. ‘Don’t worry. She’s got enough kisses for all of us.’

      Gittern in one hand, Duncan reached for Henry, but Geoffrey lurched towards the girl, stumbling into her, holding her against the wall.

      Jane’s throat ached to scream no. What had turned her happy comrades into monsters who thought a woman would welcome their drunken kisses? ‘Don’t! Stop!’

      ‘Don’t worry, Little John.’ Henry tumbled to his knees, still laughing, nearly bringing Duncan down. The gittern СКАЧАТЬ