In The Master's Bed. Blythe Gifford

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      She looked with longing at the sunshine. Perhaps later, she might borrow a horse and ride.

      ‘Jane!’

      She dropped the curtain. ‘Yes?’ Had her mother called before?

      ‘This pain has passed. Solay needs something to drink.’

      Jane walked to the basin in the corner and scooped cool water into a cup. She should have noticed her sister’s need and answered it. It was as if she lacked some inborn instinct that other women had, something that whispered to them and told them what to do.

      Her sister’s pet popinjay paced on his perch, green neck feathers stiff and ruffled. ‘Jane! Jane!’ His screech sounded like an accusation.

      She turned back to the bed where her sister lay, belly big as a mountain. The pain had come in waves all night and after each one, Solay had less time to recover. Her long, dark hair was tangled and matted, her deep violet eyes red-rimmed.

      Justin, Solay’s husband, pulled aside the curtain covering the door, but did not step in. ‘How is she? What can I do?’

      Solay opened her eyes and waved a hand she barely had the strength to lift. ‘Shoo. I’m not fit to be seen.’

      Her mother went to the door and gave him a push. ‘Go back to the hall. Play chess with your brother.’

      He didn’t move. ‘Is it always thus?’ Jane could barely hear his whisper.

      ‘Solay’s birth was much like this,’ her mother answered, not bothering to lower her voice. ‘They said it was the shortest night of the year, but it was the longest I ever spent.’

      Her reassurance did not wipe the fear from his face. ‘It’s been hours.’

      ‘And it will be hours more. This is women’s work. Go wake the midwife from her nap if you want to do something useful.’ She touched his arm then, and whispered, ‘And pray to the Virgin.’

      Jane took a step, wanting to follow him, but he was a man and free to do as he liked. She wished she could go wake the midwife, or play chess, or rummage through Justin’s legal documents as he often let her do.

      She wished she were anywhere but here.

      ‘Jane! Where’s the water?’

      She returned to the bed and held out the cup. Solay, too weary to hold her eyes open, reached for it, but her hand knocked Jane’s and the water spilled across the bed.

      Solay yelped in surprise.

      ‘Now look!’ her mother barked, her worried glance on Solay.

      And Jane knew she had failed all over again.

      ‘Look!’ the bird screeched. ‘Look!’

      ‘Quiet, Gower,’ Jane snapped.

      She grabbed some linen to mop the spill, but she bumped Solay’s swollen belly and her mother whisked the cloth away. ‘Lie back, Solay.’ She dabbed the soaked bedclothes without jostling her daughter. ‘Just rest. Everything will be well.’

      ‘Is it always thus?’ Jane whispered, when her mother handed her the spent cloth.

      She shook her head and answered in a whisper, ‘This babe is coming too soon.’

      Jane squeezed the soggy linen not knowing what to do, fearing she would do something wrong, wanting only to escape. ‘I’ll get fresh linen.’

      ‘Don’t leave.’ Solay’s voice surprised her. ‘Sing for me.’

      With a warning glance, her mother stepped into the corridor, looking for a serving girl and clean cloths.

      Jane tried the first few notes of ‘Sumer is icumen in’, but they caught in her throat. She gazed at Solay, helpless. ‘I can’t even do that right.’

      ‘Don’t worry. I just like having my little sister here.’

      Solay stretched out her hand and Jane grabbed it. She looked down at their clasped fingers. Solay’s were slender and white, tapering and delicate. Like the rest of her, they were everything a woman should be: beautiful, graceful, deft, accommodating.

      Everything that Jane was not.

      Her own hands were blunt and square. The short, stubby fingers were free of the smell of dirt and horses only because the midwife had insisted they bring clean hands into the birthing room.

      Her grip on Solay’s fingers tightened. ‘Are you all right?’

      ‘The pain is bearable,’ she said, with a slight smile. ‘But I think you’ll have to greet your future husband without me.’

      Husband. A stranger to whom she would have to surrender her life. She had forgotten he was to arrive within the month.

      She had tried to forget.

      ‘I don’t want to marry.’ A husband would expect her to be like Solay or her mother, to know all those things that were more foreign to her than Latin.

      Solay squeezed her hand in sympathy. ‘I know. But you’re seventeen. It’s time. Past time.’

      Jane felt a pout hover on her mouth.

      Solay reached over to pinch Jane’s lower lip. ‘Look at you! The popinjay could perch on that lip.’ She sighed. ‘At least meet the man. Justin has told him you’re…’

      Different. She was different.

      ‘Does he know that I want to travel the world? And that I read Latin?’

      Solay’s smile wavered. ‘He’s a merchant and so you may be able to do things a noble’s wife could not. Besides, those things may not be so important to you soon.’

      ‘You’ve said that before.’ As if marriage would turn her into a strange, unrecognisable creature.

      ‘If you don’t like him, we won’t force you, I promise. Justin and I just want you to be as happy as we are.’

      Jane pressed Solay’s hand against her cheek. ‘I know.’ Impossible wish. She would never be anything like her beautiful sister who tried to understand her, but never really did.

      Solay slipped her hand away and tugged on Jane’s short, blonde hair. ‘But I do wish you hadn’t cut your hair. Men admire long, fair curls and you—’ Her face stiffened. Eyes wide, she looked down. ‘Something’s coming. It’s…I’m…it’s all wet down there.’

      Jane sat motionless for a moment. Then, she ran to the door and flung the dark curtain aside. ‘Mother!’

      Her mother, the yawning midwife and a servant carrying linen had just reached the top of the stairs. They ran the last few steps into the room.

      The midwife put a hand on Solay’s brow. ‘How many pains did she have while I was gone?’

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