In The Master's Bed. Blythe Gifford

herself. A girl, then.

      ‘Here, wench,’ Henry yelled. ‘Do you like my song?’

      She waved, but didn’t stop. ‘Not tonight.’

      ‘Hey!’ he shouted. ‘I asked you a question.’

      She kept walking.

      ‘I’d ignore you if I were her,’ Duncan said, reaching out to pull him back. ‘You sound like a croaking toad.’

      But Henry was not to be dissuaded. ‘Answer me!’ he called.

      He wrenched his arm from Duncan, then ran ahead and grabbed the girl, pushing her against a wall. The others moved in, Jane with them, close enough to recognise the serving woman from the alehouse.

      No decent woman would be out alone.

      Jane saw both fright and anger in her stance.

      The anger won. ‘You all sound like toads to me.’

      ‘Hey!’ Geoffrey said, stumbling towards her. ‘Don’t insult my friends.’

      ‘Kiss her, Geoffrey!’ Henry said, pushing him at the girl. ‘Your betrothed won’t know.’

      ‘That’s enough.’ Duncan said. ‘If we rouse the Proctor, I’ll have to explain this all to the Chancellor.’

      But Henry was beyond persuasion. ‘Don’t worry. She’s got enough kisses for all of us.’

      Gittern in one hand, Duncan reached for Henry, but Geoffrey lurched towards the girl, stumbling into her, holding her against the wall.

      Jane’s throat ached to scream no. What had turned her happy comrades into monsters who thought a woman would welcome their drunken kisses? ‘Don’t! Stop!’

      ‘Don’t worry, Little John.’ Henry tumbled to his knees, still laughing, nearly bringing Duncan down. The gittern strings jangled. ‘You’ll get your turn.’

      The thought churned her belly. All the ale that had lain peacefully a few moments before rose up in protest. She doubled over and spewed the contents of her stomach on to the dusty street.

      A hand, Duncan’s, rubbed her back, the motion steadying.

      Still sitting in the dirt, Henry laughed. ‘That’s a good time for the lad.’

      She squeezed her eyes, but that made her dizzy. Barely able to stand, she swayed closer to Duncan, but she wanted to flail them all. How could these men, scholars, treat a woman so? Even Geoffrey, near married and the gentlest of them, had joined in. Only Duncan had made a protest. Was that for fear of the watch or for care of the girl?

      ‘Come on, you oafs.’ Duncan’s voice rumbled in her ear. ‘I’ve trouble enough keeping us in the Chancellor’s good graces without an affray in the street. Leave her.’

      When she opened her eyes, the girl was gone. Henry, barely noticing he’d been deprived of his kiss, staggered to his feet, and resumed his song. She took one shaky step and Geoffrey came to her other side.

      Duncan held him back. ‘I’ve got him. He’s too kalied to walk.’

      And she felt herself lifted into his arms.

      Cradled against him, she cherished the rise and fall of his chest against her cheek and caught the scent of his skin, a warm, steadying whiff of juniper.

      Geoffrey’s voice came from close beside her. ‘I’ll take him for a while if you like.’

      ‘He weighs no more than a grown ewe,’ Duncan answered, in his northern lilt. ‘I’d toss him over me shoulder, but he’s likely to bowk down me back.’

      She stiffened, unable to relax in his arms. What if she had been discovered on the street when she’d been searching for a bed?

      What if she were discovered now?

      The thought made her stomach rebel again, but she pursed her lips to quell the rumble.

      Henry had quieted by the time they returned to the hall. He and Geoffrey helped each other up the stairs.

      She wiggled against Duncan. ‘Put me down.’

      ‘Are you sure?’

      She nodded and he swung her on to the first step. She lifted her foot and tripped.

      He sighed. ‘Come on, then. I’ll put you to bed.’

      He reached to scoop her up again and she put up her hands. ‘I can do it myself.’ Even to her ears, she sounded like a petulant child.

      ‘I’m sure you can,’ he answered, his voice patient and soft, ‘but it will be easier if I help.’

      She slapped his hand away, stumbling backwards to land hard on the step. ‘No!’ Would he ignore her protest, as they had ignored that girl’s?

      He leaned against the wall, weary. ‘I’m too tired for your foolishness. Now let me put you to bed, Little John, and we can all get some sleep. I’ve got to open St Michael’s door for prime mass tomorrow and I’ve no patience for this.’

      He reached for her, but she kicked and slapped, not knowing where her blows landed. Fear blurred her vision. What would he do if he uncovered the woman under Little John’s clothes? Would he hold her against a wall and demand a kiss?

      Or something worse?

      Her heel connected with his ribs and her elbow with his ear. ‘No!’ she shrieked. Loud enough to wake the house.

      ‘Enough!’ He held up his hands. ‘Take yourself to bed then. And don’t whine to me tomorrow about how you bowked your guts out all night.’

      She clambered to her feet, then abruptly sat again as her stomach started spinning. ‘Don’t need your help.’ A man could do things by himself. ‘I’ll be better by the morning.’

      He shook his head as she walked herself up the stairs on her bottom. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I expect you’ll be worse.’