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Praise for Blythe Gifford
IN THE MASTER’S BED
‘…expertly crafted…fascinating historical details…give this sexy historical a richness and depth…’—Booklist
‘…seductive, subtly spellbinding…’—Romance Junkies
INNOCENCE UNVEILED
‘…absolutely fascinating…enchantingly different…prepare to be transported to another time and place.’—Cataromance
‘…[a] powerful tale of love and passion. Masterfully weaving in actual historical events with the fictional characters…Ms Gifford keeps the passion and adventure simmering with volatile human emotions.’—Reviewers International Org
THE HARLOT’S DAUGHTER
‘Blythe Gifford finds the perfect balance between history and romance in THE HARLOT’S DAUGHTER as she expertly blends a fascinating setting and beautifully nuanced characters into a captivating love story.’—Chicago Tribune
‘Gifford has chosen a time period that is filled with kings, kingmakers and treachery. Although there is plenty of fodder for turbulence, the author uses that to move her hero and heroine together on a discovery of love. She proves that love through the ages doesn’t always run smoothly, be it between nobles or commoners.’—RT Book Reviews
‘A must-read for fans of medieval history…brings history to life complete with political intrigue and turbulent passions.’—Reviewers International Org
THE KNAVE AND THE MAIDEN
‘This debut novel by a new voice in medieval romance was for me…pure poetry!…the sweetness of the ending will have you running for your tissues. Oh, yes, this is a new star on the horizon, and I certainly hope to see much more from her!’—Historical Romance Writers
Jane held out her hand and Duncan shook it. As it lay safely clasped in his, she felt a different kind of closeness.
One only a woman might feel.
Her hand trembled against his and she saw the same feeling touch his eyes. Then he leaned forward and took her lips, softly. She laced her fingers through the waves of his hair, clinging, wishing there was a way to be closer.
As he cradled her head in his hands, pressed his lips to hers, explored her with a gentle tongue, she felt the elemental, unavoidable connection of a man and a woman. It went far beyond the feeble camaraderie that she had yearned for.
He broke the kiss, but neither could break the gaze.
‘We mustn’t,’ she whispered. Unnecessary, futile words. ‘Ever.’
‘I know.’ But his answer did not erase the desire in his eyes, and his hands still lingered in her hair…
In the Master’s Bed
Blythe Gifford
About the Author
After a career in public relations, advertising and marketing, BLYTHE GIFFORD returned to her first love: writing historical romance. Now her characters grapple with questions about love, work and the meaning of life, and always find the right answers. She strives to deliver intensely emotional, compelling stories set in a vivid, authentic world. She was a finalist in the Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart™ Award competition for her debut novel, THE KNAVE AND THE MAIDEN. She feeds her muse with music, art, history, walks and good friends. You can reach her via her website: www.BlytheGifford.com
Recent novels by the same author:
THE KNAVE AND THE MAIDEN
THE HARLOT’S DAUGHTER
INNOCENCE UNVEILED
Author Note
Sometimes history sparks ideas. Other times you get an idea and discover only later that it is documented in history. When I began work on this book I knew the premise might stretch my readers’ credulity. How realistic is it to expect that a woman could live as a man undetected, particularly in the Middle Ages? There was no co-education, no trouser suit, no common ground for the two to meet.
But sometimes history calls to us in mysterious ways. As I began my research I discovered a medieval woman who had done exactly that: attended the university in Krakow, disguised as a man. And she maintained this façade for two years. So as you embark on Jane’s journey, remember: it could have happened this way.
Dedication
To the boys in the locker room.
Thanks for letting me in.
You probably think this one is about you.
Acknowledgements
Phil Cushman for loaning the book; Lindsay Longford for persisting when I looked dazed; Beverly Long and Pat White for early reads; Anna Louise Lucia for finding the right pele tower, and Chris Hodak for the Olympic cheers at the finish line.
O Swallow, Swallow by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
‘O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each, That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, And dark and true and tender is the North.’
Chapter One
England—late summer 1388
The smell of the birthing room was smothering her.
A crackling fire kept the water boiling, adding to the August morning’s heat. She pulled aside the dark curtain cloaking the castle window and grasped a breath of fresh air.
She looked with longing at the sunshine. Perhaps later, she might borrow a horse and ride.
‘Jane!’
She dropped the curtain. ‘Yes?’ Had her mother called before?
‘This pain has passed. Solay needs something to drink.’
Jane walked to the basin in the corner and scooped cool water into a cup. She should have noticed her sister’s need and answered it. It was as if she lacked some inborn instinct that other women had, something that whispered to them and told them what to do.
Her sister’s pet popinjay paced on his perch, green neck feathers stiff and ruffled. ‘Jane! Jane!’ His screech sounded like an accusation.
She turned back to the bed where her sister lay, belly big as a mountain. The pain had come in waves all night and after each one, Solay had less time to recover. Her long, dark hair was tangled and matted, her deep violet eyes red-rimmed.
Justin, Solay’s husband, pulled aside the curtain covering the door, but did not step in. ‘How is she? What can I do?’
Solay opened her eyes and waved a hand she barely had the strength to lift. ‘Shoo. I’m not fit to be seen.’
Her mother went to the door and gave him a push. ‘Go back to the hall. Play chess with your brother.’
He didn’t move. ‘Is it always thus?’ Jane could barely hear his whisper.
‘Solay’s birth was much like this,’ her mother answered, not bothering to lower her voice. ‘They said it was the shortest night of the year, but it was the longest I ever spent.’
Her reassurance did not wipe the fear from his face. ‘It’s been hours.’
‘And it will be hours more. This is women’s work. Go wake the midwife from her nap if you want to do something useful.’ She touched his arm then, and whispered, ‘And pray to the Virgin.’
Jane took a step, wanting to follow him, but he was a man and free to do as he liked. She wished she could go wake the midwife, or play chess, or rummage through Justin’s legal documents as he often let her do.
She wished she were anywhere but here.
‘Jane! Where’s the water?’
She returned to the bed and held out the cup. Solay, too weary to hold her eyes open, reached for it, but her hand knocked Jane’s and the water spilled across the bed.
Solay yelped in surprise.
‘Now look!’ her mother barked, her worried glance on Solay.
And Jane knew she had failed all over again.
‘Look!’ the bird screeched. ‘Look!’
‘Quiet, Gower,’ Jane snapped.
She grabbed some linen to mop the spill, but she bumped Solay’s swollen belly and her mother whisked the cloth away. ‘Lie back, Solay.’ She dabbed the soaked bedclothes without jostling her daughter. ‘Just rest. Everything will be well.’
‘Is it always thus?’ Jane whispered, when her mother handed her the spent cloth.
She shook her head and answered in a whisper, ‘This babe is coming too soon.’
Jane squeezed the soggy linen not knowing what to do, fearing she would do something wrong, wanting only to escape. ‘I’ll get fresh linen.’
‘Don’t leave.’ Solay’s voice surprised her. ‘Sing for me.’
With a warning glance, her mother stepped into the corridor, looking for a serving girl and clean cloths.
Jane tried the first few notes of ‘Sumer is icumen in’, but they caught in her throat. She gazed at Solay, helpless. ‘I can’t even do that right.’
‘Don’t worry. I just like having my little sister here.’
Solay stretched out her hand and Jane grabbed it. She looked down at their clasped fingers. Solay’s were slender and white, tapering and delicate. Like the rest of her, they were everything a woman should be: beautiful, graceful, deft, accommodating.
Everything that Jane was not.
Her own hands were blunt and square. The short, stubby fingers were free of the smell of dirt and horses only because the midwife had insisted they bring clean hands into the birthing room.
Her grip on Solay’s fingers tightened. ‘Are you all right?’
‘The pain is bearable,’ she said, with a slight smile. ‘But I think you’ll have to greet your future husband without me.’
Husband. A stranger to whom she would have to surrender her life. She had forgotten he was to arrive within the month.
She had tried to forget.
‘I don’t want to marry.’ A husband would expect her to be like Solay or her mother, to know all those things that were more foreign to her than Latin.
Solay squeezed her hand in sympathy. ‘I know. But you’re seventeen. It’s time. Past time.’
Jane felt a pout hover on her mouth.
Solay reached over to pinch Jane’s lower lip. ‘Look at you! The popinjay could perch on that lip.’ She sighed. ‘At least meet the man. Justin has told him you’re…’
Different. She was different.
‘Does he know that I want to travel the world? And that I read Latin?’
Solay’s smile wavered. ‘He’s a merchant and so you may be able to do things a noble’s wife could not. Besides, those things may not be so important to you soon.’
‘You’ve said that before.’ As if marriage would turn her into a strange, unrecognisable creature.
‘If you don’t like him, we won’t force you, I promise. Justin and I just want you to be as happy as we are.’
Jane pressed Solay’s hand against her cheek. ‘I know.’ Impossible wish. She would never be anything like her beautiful sister who tried to understand her, but never really did.
Solay slipped her hand away and tugged on Jane’s short, blonde hair. ‘But I do wish you hadn’t cut your hair. Men admire long, fair curls and you—’ Her face stiffened. Eyes wide, she looked down. ‘Something’s coming. It’s…I’m…it’s all wet down there.’
Jane sat motionless for a moment. Then, she ran to the door and flung the dark curtain aside. ‘Mother!’
Her mother, the yawning midwife and a servant carrying linen had just reached the top of the stairs. They ran the last few steps into the room.
The midwife put a hand on Solay’s brow. ‘How many pains did she have while I was gone?’
Jane looked down at the bed, ashamed to meet her eyes. Jane’s job had been to count. ‘I don’t know.’
The midwife threw back the covers. The bed was soaked with more water than the cup could hold.
And it was red.
‘Mother!’ She could barely get the word out. ‘Look!’ It was less a word than a shriek.
‘Look!’ Gower squawked from the corner. ‘Look!’ He flapped his wings, reaching the limit of the leg chain as he tried to fly.
‘I can see, Jane.’ Her eyes held a warning.
Solay’s eyes widened. ‘Mother? What’s happening?’
‘Shh. All is well.’ Her mother patted Solay and kissed her forehead.
Jane backed away from the bed, helpless. How did her mother stay calm and comforting? How did she know what to do?
Any minute her sister might die while Jane, useless, could do nothing.
I can’t. The shriek in her head was all she could hear. I can’t.
And when her sister screamed, Jane started to run.
She ran, but the screams chased her.
They followed as she fled the room and ran to her own, where she wrapped her breasts, shed her dress and pulled on chausses, tunic and cloak.
The screams did not cease.
They trailed her as she ran out of the castle gate and out on to the road, cascading, one after the other, as if the baby were clawing its way out of her sister’s belly.
She didn’t stop running until she realised the screams still sounded only in her head.
No one had seen her leave and it wasn’t until she was clear of the house, breasts bound, men’s clothing in place, that she realised she had been planning to escape for a long time.
Everything had been at hand. The tunic and leg hose, the food, the walking stick, the small stash of coins were all there, but when the moment had come, she had no plan but to run.
Scooping fresh air into her lungs, she battled her guilty thoughts. Solay would not miss her. The others were there, women who knew how to do those things—her mother, her sister-in-law, the midwife—any one of them would be more help than Jane.
She didn’t belong in that world of women, full of responsibilities she didn’t want and expectations she could never meet. She wanted what a man had—to go where she wanted, to do what she wanted, without a woman’s limits.
She squeezed her eyes against the sadness of losing her family, squared her shoulders and faced the future.
She could never pass as a fighting man, but she knew something of clerking from listening to her sister’s husband. As a learned man, surely she could live among men undetected.
And as a clerk, she might find a place in the king’s court. Not the place she should have had, but still one in which she could represent the king in important affairs of state in Paris or Rome.
She hoisted her sack.
Free as a man. Dependent on no one but herself.
If she had calculated correctly, Cambridge would take her three days.
Two days later, Jane woke, broke her fast on berries and headed again for the sunrise, squinting towards the horizon for a glimpse of Cambridge.
On the road heading east, the birds chirped and a placid, dappled cow turned to look, chewing her cud.
You ran away from your sister when she needed you, the cow seemed to say.
She turned her back on the accusing eyes. There was nothing she could have done that one of the others couldn’t have done better.
Her stomach moaned. She should have stuffed more bread and cheese in the sack, but she was not accustomed to making plans for her own food.
Two days on the road already felt like ten.
After two nights of sleeping by the side of the road, she looked and smelled nothing like a lady. She had lost the walking stick in a tumble into a stream on the first day, walked in damp clothes for two, and then been stung by a wasp.
She itched her swollen hand, wondering how far it was to Cambridge.
Behind her, she heard a horse at a trot and turned, too tired to run. If it was a thief, he’d get little enough.
Unless he realised she was a woman. Then the threat would be much greater than losing her meagre purse.
She put on her most manly stance as the black horse and rider came closer. Good shoulders on them, both the steed and the man.
The man looked as rough as an outlaw. Perhaps in his mid-twenties, his face was all angles, the nose broken and mended, black hair and beard shaggy. The stringed gittern slung over his back was small comfort. Travelling entertainers were the personification of all vices.
He pulled up the horse and looked down at her. ‘Where’s t’ gaan?’
She eyed him warily, puzzling over the words, run together in an unfamiliar accent. Yet his eyes, grey like clouds bearing rain, were not unkind. ‘What do you say?’
He sighed and spoke more slowly as if in a foreign tongue. ‘Where are you going?’
She cleared her throat. ‘Cambridge.’ She hoped she had pitched her voice low enough.
He smiled. ‘And I. You’re a student, then?’
She nodded, afraid to risk her voice again.
He studied her, running his eyes from crown to toes. She shifted, feeling something like lightning in his glance.
‘Students dinna travel alone,’ he said, finally.
‘Neither do jongleurs.’
He laughed, a musical sound. ‘I play for meself alone.’
She felt a moment’s envy of his stringed instrument. To live as a man, she would have to abandon song, the only womanly thing about her.
‘What’s your name, boy?’
Boy. She bit back a grin. ‘Ja—’ She coughed. ‘John. What are you called?’
‘Duncan.’ He held out a hand. ‘Where’s t’ frae?’
Frae? He must mean from. She swallowed, trying to think. She had planned to say Essex, where she’d lived until spring, but she was on the wrong side of Cambridge to tell that tale. ‘What does it matter?’
Looking down at her from his horse, he didn’t bother to answer. It always mattered where a man was from. ‘You’re not Welsh, are you? The Welsh are no friends of mine.’
She shook her head.
‘Nor Irish?’
‘Do I look Irish?’
‘You look as if you have a drop of the Norse blood in you.’
She bit her tongue and shook her head. Her fair hair came from her father, the late King, one more thing she must hide. ‘Where’s your home?’ she countered.
‘The Eden Valley,’ he answered. The words softened his face, just for a moment. ‘Where Cumberland meets Westmoreland.’
That explained his strange tongue. He had raked her with his eyes and now she returned the favour. ‘You eat your meat uncooked?’
She had never seen someone from the north lands. Everyone knew the people from there were coarse, uncouth creatures and he looked the part, except for that moment his eyes had been gentle.
They looked gentle no more. ‘You’ve heard the stories, have you?’ He growled, leaning down to bare his teeth at her. ‘Aye, we do. We tear into the raw flesh like wolves.’
She stumbled backwards, as if blasted by the wind, and ended up sitting in the dirt.
When he laughed, she realised she’d been played with.
She waited for him to offer his hand to help her up, then remembered she was a lad and could rise on her own. ‘Well, that’s what they say,’ she answered, brushing the dirt from her seat as she stood.
He shook his head. ‘You’re a south lander, that’s certain. While you spent the summer growing pretty gardens and spouting poesy, we’ve been keeping the Scots from cutting across England like a scythe through wheat.’
Ah, yes. She would have to learn to relish talk of war. ‘And you’re a long way from having to face the French.’
‘You think so, do you? And are you so ignorant you’ve forgotten that the last time the French set foot on English soil it was a Scot who opened the door?’ His expression was grim. ‘While you stand here fluttering like a woman, the Scots have delved our borders and burned our crops.’
Like a woman. The Scots were a less immediate threat than discovery. She lifted her hands and spread her feet. ‘Come down from that horse and face my fists and we’ll decide who’s a better man.’
His grimace turned to laughter, a wonderful sound, and he leaned over the horse’s neck to clap her on the shoulder. ‘Well, Little John, I see you’ve much to learn, but I’ll spare you a brayin’ today.’
She tried not to look relieved.
‘Come.’ He held out his hand. ‘Share my horse. You’ll see Cambridge afore day’s end.’
Caked with the dirt of her days on the road, she slouched and shrugged as if it didn’t matter. Men, in her experience, were not good at welcoming help. ‘Well, if you insist. I can take care of myself, you know.’
Unlike a woman, dependent on a man for the food that filled her belly and the air that filled her lungs.
‘Oh, yes, and a fine job you’re doing, too,’ he said, raising his eyebrows at her bedraggled state. ‘Now accept a hand when it’s offered.’
He swung the gittern from his back to his chest and slipped his foot from the stirrup so she could have a leg up. Then he grabbed her arm, his grip firm and safe, and hauled her up behind him. She scrambled to keep her seat as the horse trotted sideways and the stringed instrument bounced against Duncan’s chest.
‘Hold on, Little John. Fall and you can walk the rest of the way.’
She patted the horse as the beast started down the road, then grabbed the man around the waist, reluctant to press too close. Her breasts were bound, but would he feel a softness against his back? Her legs, splayed wide and tucked against his hips, seemed to expose her most intimate secret. Would he notice what was missing there?
Talk. Talk would distract him. And her. ‘You had a skirmish with the Scots, you say?’
‘Skirmish? Aye, if you want to call it that. Three thousand swooped into the valley and were halfway to Appleby before I left.’
‘You left?’ Astonished, she could not stop the words. Men did not shirk battle.
‘I was sent to ask, nay, to plead for help from our illustrious King and Council.’ The sentence held a sneer.
‘You’ve seen the King?’ Her mother, the old King’s mistress, had fled the court at his death. Jane had been five then and remembered little, but Solay had returned to Court last year and her sister had listened to her every tale.
‘Seen him? I’ve spoken to him. He knows me name.’ The return of his accent hinted at his pride.
She was dumbstruck. The relationship was muddled in her mind, but the new King was some sort of half-nephew of hers, although he was older than she by a few years. Yet she had never even seen him.
It seemed that even a commoner from the north had more stature than a lowly woman. ‘So what did they say, the King and Council?’
‘Next year.’ His words were harsh. ‘They said next year.’
Invaders would not wait on the Council’s convenience. She wondered how far away Appleby was. ‘Why not now?’
‘Because they’ve no money, winter is a miserable season for a campaign, and a few more excuses I can’t remember.’
Neither her sister nor her sister’s husband held the current government in high regard, but they held their tongues. When one was the illegitimate daughter of a dead king, it was dangerous to demean a live one, even if he was devious and less than trustworthy.
‘Then why go to Cambridge?’ Wouldn’t a man return home to fight?’
‘Among other reasons, because Parliament is meeting there.’
His tone implied that she was an idiot who should have got all the information she needed from that simple statement.
‘Well, I can’t divine your thoughts.’ In her family’s experience, Parliament was worse than King and Council, but it wouldn’t be wise to say so. ‘You sit in the Commons, then?’ Minstrel? Representative? Who was this man?
‘Nay, but I must speak to those who do.’
‘And the King? He’ll be there, too?’
‘Within a fortnight,’ Duncan answered.
‘I hear he’s fair and well favoured.’
‘You must have heard that from the lasses. But he looks the part, all pomp and gilt. He makes certain you know who he is.’
She would know him if she saw him, she was certain of that. And if the King was coming to Cambridge, she would make sure she did.
As they rode in silence, there was nothing to distract her from the breadth and strength of his back. He blocked the wind, but the heat that filled her came from some place inside. She had never been so close to any man, certainly not to one from the border lands.
Questions itched her tongue. Northerners were half-beasts, or so she’d been told. Yet he looked little different from other men.
‘Tell me about it,’ she said, finally, ‘where you’re from.’ She would not have another chance to ask.
He did not speak at first.
‘Full a’ mountains,’ he said, finally. ‘I’d lay a wager you’ve never seen a mountain.’
She shook her head, then realised he couldn’t see her. ‘No.’
‘Well, there’s fells and crags and becks—all of earth a man could ever want.’
This did not sound like the cold and gloomy Lucifer’s land she expected. ‘You like it, then?’
‘The soil speaks to me.’
‘That sounds like poesy.’ She bit her lip, afraid he would take insult, but he nodded.
‘The land is poem enough.’ He said the words without shame.
The pleasant phrase was more than she would have expected from a bumpkin. Still, God had given man dominion over the earth so he could control its fearsome power. Only a savage would choose to live in the wilderness.
Then he shook his shoulders, as if sloughing off a thought. ‘But it’s not home any longer. And where’s yours, lad? Answer me now. It’s not a fighting question.’
She chewed her lip, trying to think.
‘Is it?’ He looked over his shoulder.
The truth first. The lie second. ‘I’m from Essex, but I’ve been living near Bedford. With my uncle.’ She could say it safely. This man would not know the region. ‘Since my parents died.’
A family would prove inconvenient, so she orphaned herself without a qualm and braced for expressions of sympathy. She could answer with the appropriate emotion. After all, her father was dead.
But instead of clucking and compassion, she heard only a mumbled grunt that could have been ‘sorry’.
There was another stretch of silence. It seemed a man had much less to say than a woman.
‘I’m going to Cambridge to study law so I can serve the King,’ she said, finally. That was sure to impress him. He could probably not even read.
‘Oh, are you?’ He did not sound impressed. ‘And where did you school, then?’ He asked as if he knew something of schooling.
Too late, she realised she might have made a dangerous boast. ‘Uh, at home. With the priest.’ Schools were for boys.
‘And how old are you?’ Something more than a northern accent lurked in his tone. ‘Fifteen? You can’t be much past that. You’re still talking treble.’
She gulped, glad her voice had always been low for a woman. To pass as a boy, she was willing to lose a few years. ‘I’ll be fifteen after Candlemas.’ Only half a year away.
‘And this is your first time at University.’
‘Yes,’ she answered, before she realised it was not a question.
‘How much Latin do you have?’ His questions were coming thick and fast.
‘Some.’
‘Ubi ius incertum, ibi ius nullum,’ he said, with nary an accent.
It was something insulting about the law, that much she recognised.
‘Varus et mutabile semper femina,’ she answered, haltingly. An insult to women was always a good rejoinder.
‘Varium, not varus. “Woman is an ever fickle and changeable thing” not a bow-legged one.’
Her cheeks burned. The man was not the country simpleton she had thought. ‘I read better than I speak.’
‘I hope so. And you’re set on being a man of law?’ Amusement and disgust twisted in his tone.
She sighed. ‘Mostly, I wanted to get away from home.’
Another laugh. She was beginning to like the sound. ‘You’ll be in good company. Sometimes I think more come to university for that than for learning.’
At the burr in his voice, a pleasant buzz lodged between her legs where they nestled against him. More than pleasant.
Her sister had tried to explain it once, this thing between men and women. Solay had waxed poetic about bodies and hearts and souls and lifetimes. It sounded like a sickness, or worse, madness, meant to warp a woman’s mind so she would submit her life to a man’s control.
Jane had never felt such a thing and didn’t want to. Another way, perhaps, that she was different from other women.
But this, this was pleasant.
He shrugged, ‘I’ve not much use for lawyers, meself, but if you’re set on it, you’ll find John Lyndwood’s as good a master as there is.’
She mumbled something vague in reply. She didn’t need a Cumberland farmer’s advice about Cambridge, even if he had picked up a few Latin phrases.
She knew what to expect at University. Her sister’s husband had been educated at the Inns at Court in London and he’d told her all about it. There were lovely quadrangles and courtyards. She would stroll the gardens, read interesting books and debate their meaning with fellow students.
But as the horse ambled across the bridge and through the gate, the city pressed in around her, denting her dreams.
Houses jumbled tightly together in crooked, smelly streets, punctuated with gaps, like a row of pulled teeth, with only charred timbers to show where the burned-out homes had stood.
‘Where are you staying?’ Duncan asked, raising his voice to be heard over two squealing pigs chasing each other around the corner. ‘I’ll take you there.’
The late summer air was ripe with the smell of horse droppings and raw fish. Where was the peaceful, cloistered garden Justin had described? She had come to Cambridge because it was out of the way and her family was less likely to look for her here than in London or at Oxford. A mistake? She had wanted to be on her own, responsible to no one, but poised on the brink of it even a stranger with a northern tongue looked safe.
Her arms tightened around her rescuer.
‘Don’t squeeze the air outta me, boy.’
She released him quickly. This was no way for a man to act. ‘Let me down here.’ She scrambled off the horse to escape the contradictory feelings and the shelter of his back.
He eyed her, standing in the street clutching her small sack. ‘You’ve no place to stay, have you?’
‘Not yet, but I will.’ The sun was still high. She had time to find a bed. ‘I’m grateful for the ride.’
He looked down at her, frowning. ‘Have you friends who’ve come before? A master expecting you?’
She put on a cloak of bravura and shook her head. Did men feel this frightened inside when they looked so fearless? ‘I’ll make my own way.’
It was time to walk away, but she could not turn her back on his searching eyes.
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