In The Master's Bed. Blythe Gifford
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black-haired northerner. When she saw him, she would walk up and say hello as if surprised to see him. As if she were there by chance.
But she did not see him, and, after a time, the woman across the street was eyeing her as if ready to call the watch so Jane squared her shoulders. Perhaps he was already inside. She would just take a look.
She put her hand on the door. She had never been in an alehouse. Who knew what waited on the other side?
The open door threw light into the dark room and drew all eyes. She ducked her head, hoping no one would look closely, but when the din of conversation didn’t halt, she breathed again and let her eyes adjust.
She saw him, finally, in a corner, at the same moment he saw her. A flicker of delight—did she imagine it?—crossed his face. Her breath fluttered. Only because it was nice to see someone smile instead of scowl at the sight of her.
He waved her to the table and when she didn’t thread her way through the room fast enough, he came to her, draping his arm over her shoulders to lead her to the corner. ‘Oust fettal?’
Words she couldn’t understand, but in a kind tongue. She blinked back tears. ‘If you’re asking how I am, I’ve been well.’
‘Good. Sit.’
She did, hoping her smell wasn’t too potent. She had taken to sneaking into a stable and bedding down with the horses. She had always got on well with horses. A little pat and a crooning song and they would settle down and let her catch a few winks.
He continued to smile. She answered with her own, and for a moment too long, they simply looked at each other, speechless and happy.
The alewife interrupted. ‘A cup for ya?’
‘Here’s Little John at last,’ Duncan said, pounding her back so hard she nearly fell off the bench. ‘Bring him some peeve.’
She wondered what he had ordered.
The alewife’s grin was toothless. ‘He’s been telling us about this lad he met on the road. Glad your head and body are still attached.’ She chuckled as she went for his drink.
Startled, Jane looked at Duncan, warmed to think she had been important enough for him to mention. ‘And why wouldn’t they be?’
He sat back and took a sip of his drink. ‘Cambridge isn’t always a friendly place.’
‘Worse than that. People are mean.’
‘Harder than you expected, is it?’
Mustn’t show her weakness. She shrugged. ‘It’s not too bad.’
Her drink appeared and she sipped it, wrinkling her nose at the cloudy brew.
Duncan chuckled. ‘That’s student ale, lad. Good as daily bread.’
She nodded, grateful to have sustenance filling her empty belly. It tasted of oats and oak.
Her shoulder brushed Duncan’s and the feel of sitting behind him on the horse flooded back. There, pressed to his back, she had learned the size of his chest and the strength in his muscles, but she had not had to face him.
Now, he peered at her in the dim light. She leaned into the shadow, afraid he would see too much. Most men only glanced at her, seeing what they expected. Duncan’s eyes lingered.
To avoid his gaze, she looked at his hands. Large and square, strong, but gentle. Firm when they had gripped hers.
‘Have you found a master, then?’
‘Not exactly.’ Even a cursory quizzing had revealed she was not ready for the rigours of rhetoric and grammar. She was in grave danger of ending up as a glomerel, condemned to do nothing but memorise Latin all day. ‘I’ve talked to a lot of them.’ She hoped her in-difference was convincing. ‘Still deciding.’
‘Well, don’t be too long about it. You must be registered with a master within fifteen days of yer arrival.’
She tapped her fingers against the table, counting. Ten more days. ‘I’ll find one by then.’
His smile was sceptical. ‘If you haven’t, you’ll be expelled.’
‘Expelled?’ She groaned. How could she be expelled before a master had written her name on the matricula list?
‘Or detained,’ he answered cheerfully, with a lift of his mug, ‘according to the King’s pleasure.’
The King. She wanted to draw his attention for her academic prowess, not for being a student no one wanted.
But Duncan might be teasing again. Surely the King had more important things to do than worry about Cambridge schoolboys. ‘You made that up.’
His smile vanished. ‘No, it’s true.’
She would not let him scare her again. ‘How is it that you know about the University?’
‘Would it surprise you if I told you I’m a master?’
Now he was teasing. ‘You can’t be.’ A master would have completed seven years of study and be ready to teach his own students. He looked the right age, but scholars were sober, celibate fellows, usually seen in a flowing robe, never seen in alehouses. ‘You don’t look anything like a master.’
‘Oh? I can see you know as much about masters as you do about the north country.’
He thought her a fool. No scholar was allowed to wear a beard. ‘You don’t even have a tonsure.’
He rubbed the top of his head and smiled. She noticed, uneasily, that the hair was shorter there. ‘It went to seed over the summer.’
She narrowed her eyes, trying to judge him. ‘If it’s true, what do you teach?’
‘If? Are you calling me a liar as well as an ignorant barbarian?’
She groaned. ‘No.’ It was wiser to placate him before he asked her to step outside and put up her fists. ‘What do you study?’
‘Not the law, I can tell ya.’ His rough accent had returned. ‘I’m teaching grammar and rhetoric and studying something that actually helps people. Medicine.’
The very word made her queasy. She shut her eyes against the memory of her sister’s screams. No, she wanted nothing to do with sick bodies.
‘Did ya find a place to stay, then?’
She opened her eyes, glad to see a sympathetic smile replace his moment of irritation. The ale had begun to work on her empty stomach and muddle her wits.
He wanted to help. Why didn’t she let him? If she asked him to teach her, he would certainly say yes. Then, she would have a master and a bed in his hall and her troubles would be over.
But sitting beside him made her chest rise and fall. Looking at his hands made her mouth go dry. Meeting his eyes, her boyish bravado evaporated into feminine silliness.
He was the only man who had ever made her want to act like a woman.
Which made him the most dangerous man of all.
No. She could not take help from him.
‘I’m staying off High Street.’ She jerked her head vaguely in the direction of Trumpington Gate. ‘Widow lady. Needed help in exchange for a bed. So you see, I didn’t need your help after all.’
‘Well, you’re settled then.’
He turned away and she felt as if a cloud had stolen the sun. No, she must spend no more time with this mercurial man. She was beginning to seek his smiles and long for his laughter.
She rose, a little unsteady on her feet. ‘Thanks for the ale. I’ll be taking my leave.’
Duncan grabbed her arm to steady her.
His touch ricocheted through her, setting off a tingle