In The Master's Bed. Blythe Gifford
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. The oldest brother would get the land. For the rest, the choice was war, university or the church. She must invent another tale to explain why she would not have the family land. ‘The lord took back the castle.’
Duncan looked at her sharply. She had not mentioned a castle or a sister before. ‘Until you’re of age?’ Did Duncan’s question sound suspicious?
‘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