Blythe Gifford - In The Master's Bed

‘Tell that to those facing the Scots alone.’

‘Winter’s coming. The Scots won’t be back until next year.’

Ah, you’re sure of that, are you? What if you’re wrong?’ Are ya still breathin’? ‘If I’d persuaded them, if they’d ridden that day—’

‘Don’t punish yourself. Before you even reached the King, the Scots had crossed the border for home.’ The man paused, as if holding worse news.

‘What else?’

‘Your father.’

Duncan gripped the rough wood of the table, then sat, feeling the world shift. ‘What about him?’

‘The Scots. They took him.’

The words hit him like one of his fadder’s punches.

He could see the old man, scarred from countless battles, many of them waged against his own sons. All of home that he had tried to escape was tied up in the old man.

And all that he couldn’t.

‘Me madder? Michael?’ The words of childhood were all he could speak.

‘Unharmed, by God’s mercy. Your brother has taken over as he was born to do. The tower held, but the village, the fields…’ He shuddered. ‘Burned.’

Duncan stared at the Common Room’s blackened hearth, seeing charred huts and homeless serfs. There’d be nothing to harvest.

They must pray for thick wool on the flock or there’d be nothing to sell.

Nothing to eat.

You left, Little John had said. He should have stayed. Much as he hated it, he should have stayed. His strong arm would have done more good there than his useless tongue had here.

He let Pickering describe the battle and his fadder’s bravery, only half-listening. He knew what the end would be.

‘They’re holding him for ransom,’ Pickering said, finally.

‘Then they’ll be sore disappointed.’ There was no joy in his laugh. ‘We’ve barely a pot to piss in.’ The funds it took to send him here were hard won. Now, at last, he was ready to take on students who would pay him, but it would be no knight’s ransom. He rose. ‘I must return.’

Pickering’s hand on his shoulder was gentler than his fadder’s had ever been. ‘You’ve given your oath here, son. To teach. And what little there was at home is less now.’

Waves of The Death had rolled over the countryside every few years, over and over until it seemed the land was trying to purge itself of people. Between the Scots and The Death, the ground, once lush with oats and wheat, had turned bleak.

‘I’ve got one mouth to feed, but two good hands.’ He held them up, proud of their strength. He could swing a spade better than some of the serfs. ‘I can help rebuild, replant—’

‘You can help here, persuading Parliament to send money north. They’re in no mood to vote more taxes.’

He shrugged off Pickering’s hand and paced the room, his rage too strong to let him sit. ‘They’ll never listen to me.’ All of them, even the boy, thinking they were cleverer and better because of where they were born and how they talked.

‘If they don’t, there will be no ransom money.’

He stopped in mid-stride and stared at Pickering. Helpless fury lodged in his gut. ‘But my fadder, the rest, they defended the border while these southerners listened to poetry readings.’

‘Between the battles in the west and the east, the Scots took more than three hundred knights, including young Hotspur and his brother.’

Duncan smacked the wall, welcoming the sting on his palm. The Percies and their knights would be redeemed long before his father. ‘That’s how it is, then? The lords who already have money are worth saving, but those of us who live in dirty stone towers and guard the borders year in and year out are not?’

‘Parliament convenes in five days,’ Pickering said. ‘We’ll have to entreat every single member for his vote.’

Duncan sighed, relief glossing over his guilt. The time had come to put on his southland demeanour. The accent first. Then he would shave the beard, and, finally, don the master’s costume he’d earned.

Finally, he would be ready to do his work here. The work he could do instead of going home again.

‘The University has two votes,’ he began. ‘I’ll make sure they go our way.’

Restless, Duncan left the hostel late that afternoon to walk the city. Plucking the gittern had not soothed him today.

At home, he would have been roaming the countryside. Harsh land, but he saw beauty in what civilised folk 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.’