In The Master's Bed. Blythe Gifford
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feared. Clear lakes. High hills. Fields, when they thrived, green enough to hurt the eyes.
Unlike this place. If he strayed too far from the city, he’d be in the fens and up to his knees in water, as if the land were sinking into the sea.
So he circled the narrow streets and it wasn’t until he found himself passing St Michael’s again that he realised he was looking for the boy.
At the sound of a quarrelsome voice, he slowed his steps and readied his fists. He should have given the boy more warning about the townsfolk. The last row between townsmen and students had left a bachelor’s student dead.
Little John, with his cocky attitude, would be fair game for a bully. The lad was quick to wave his fists, but he wouldn’t last two minutes in a serious match.
Just ahead, a large man towered over a young lad, pinning him in place with a hand on one shoulder. It was near dusk, but Duncan recognised the pale gold hair.
Little John was in trouble already.
His heart lurched. Without thinking, he stepped over and put his hand on John’s other shoulder and his best Cambridge accent on his lips. ‘What’s going on here?’
John jumped at the touch, but his eyes—blue, Duncan noted for the first time—widened in recognition.
The man didn’t let go. ‘This boy was sneaking around the stable. Probably going to steal a horse.’
‘I was not,’ John began. ‘I just wanted—’
Duncan squeezed his shoulder. He was oddly glad to see the boy, but the lad was no good at holding his tongue. ‘There must be some misunderstanding.’
The man peered at him. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m his master.’
John’s head snapped up in surprise. Thankfully, this time, he kept his mouth shut.
The stableman wasn’t ready to let go. ‘You don’t look like no grad.’
Duncan’s strong arms and shoulders didn’t fit their image of a scholar and he hadn’t yet shaved his summer beard. ‘Maybe not, but that’s what I am and he is one of our Solar boys.’ That would put his punishment in the hands of the University, not the town. ‘I’ll vouch for him.’
The man’s grip loosened enough for Duncan to take control. He turned to John, ignoring the other man as if the matter were settled. ‘Come along now. The bedchambers need sweeping and the laundry’s waiting.’
The lad’s grateful expression turned belligerent. ‘But—’
‘Not a word!’ One wrong move and the stable master could still attack. ‘Leave one more time without permission and you won’t get another chance.’ He put his hand behind the boy’s neck and pulled him up High Street, out of the man’s reach.
‘You’re a wretched lot, all of you!’ he called to their backs.
Duncan heard boots crunch on gravel, then something sharp and hard hit his back. The next rock hit John’s shoulder. He grabbed the boy’s arm and shoved him ahead. ‘Run!’
Duncan’s back took three more blows before they turned the corner, out of range.
When he was sure the man was not going to follow, Duncan stopped, gasping for breath, and shook the boy for lack of sense. He searched the lad for damage, but his blond curls seemed to halo a flawless face. ‘I warned you.’ The words came out in a snarl.
‘You warned me about the butchers!’ He tried to twist away, but was no match for Duncan’s strong hands. ‘That was a stable master.’
‘Well, they don’t like us much either.’
‘Us?’ Little John stopped wriggling and looked up. Not only were the lad’s eyes blue, they had a disturbing tendency to linger. ‘You and me?’
His palm pulsed against the boy’s shoulder. ‘Not exactly.’ The phrase implied a connection Duncan didn’t want to feel. ‘I meant any University men. And you might thank me for saving your miserable hide.’
John’s gaze, like Duncan’s hand, refused to let go. ‘I thank you, then, but I didn’t ask you to rescue me.’
There was something in those eyes, some combination of bravado and vulnerability that tugged at places uncomfortably deep inside.
‘If you don’t want to be rescued, stop getting into trouble. What were you doing there?’
A sullen frown marred the boy’s face. ‘Nothing. I didn’t hurt anything.’
Duncan sighed, exasperated. ‘The widow turned you out?’
The boy hung his head, mercifully breaking his gaze. The words came slowly. ‘There never was a widow.’
Prideful liar. What else had the lad lied about? ‘You had no place to sleep, did you?’
‘I did, too! I was sleeping in the stable until he threw me out!’
‘You wouldna have been so lucky.’ His voice rose and his Cambridge accent fell as he envisioned what had almost happened. He could have lost the boy, lost another one because he’d looked away, just for a moment. ‘He was going to bray ya bloody, break yer neb, and hand ya to the sheriff, who would have thrown you in gaol with the murderers.’
Even in the fading light, he could see the boy’s face turn pale. Something stirred inside him. The lad’s shoulder trembled beneath his palm and he pulled it away. ‘When did you eat last?’
Little John raised a thumb and then two fingers. ‘Monday. They gave me a bowl of porridge at Michaelhouse.’
Duncan sighed. ‘Well, I’ll not leave you to be beaten like a stray dog, though I’ve a mind to beat some sense into you myself. If you’ve got no more brains than to refuse help when it’s offered, you’ll never earn your bachelor’s.’ He might not have saved Peter, he might not be able to save his fadder, but he could save one would-be scholar from starving in the streets. ‘I’m taking you back to the hostel.’
‘As your student?’
‘I didn’t say that.’ He wanted to help the lad, but the idea of becoming his master made Duncan uneasy. It seemed like more than an academic commitment. ‘Besides, why should I? You’ve turned down every offer of help I’ve made.’
His words were met with a pout. This lad was the most prideful piece he’d ever met. ‘Oh? Does that not please you, young gentleman?’ he said, with a sharp tongue. ‘Then stroll over to Trinity Hall and ask for a bed.’
The lower lip quivered. ‘Trinity turned me down.’
Duncan regretted his harsh words. Beset with his own demons, he forgot the lad was alone in the world and still young enough to cry.
Duncan had never been that young. ‘A man doesn’t meet defeat with tears.’
‘But they’ve all turned me down. St Peter’s, King’s Hall, Clare Hall, Michaelhouse—’ He stopped for a gulp of air. ‘All of them.’
Duncan felt a twinge of sympathy. As a young student, he’d forced his way into St Benet’s Hostel. He’d had to force most of what he’d got from life. The only reason he was here at all was because some self-righteous bishop thought a Cambridge education would overcome the ‘waste, desolate and illiterate condition’ of a young man from the north country. The man’s exact words.
Duncan had memorised them.
‘What did they say? Why won’t they take you?’
‘My Latin isn’t good enough.’
‘Well, I said the same, lad. Did you not believe me?’
‘I don’t know what to do now.’
‘You go to the hostels, of course.’ The colleges