"My lady," he said, "what decision?"
"Wilt thou send me hence?"
He walked away. Melanthe slid a look after him. He stood at the window, his back to her. "Send you hence?" he demanded harshly. "A'plight, then why haf I troubled to bringen you here, in the stead of drowning you like a kitten in a bag, for to spare myseluen the toil? If that be the decision you would hear—nill I take you hence, nay, nor any here show you the way. In good time, when augurs it safe enow, then will I see you to your hold. Henceforth until then, thou moste biden here, though it displease."
She bent her head, clasping her fingers tight together. "Nay—I will not displease. I can maken myself pleasant to them. It is the easiest thing possible. I cannot thank them for their injury to thee and thy rightful estate, but I am thy wife, and n'would not have discord sown between us, for it bodes not well in the house." She took up the spoon again abruptly, plunging it into the pottage. "And such is a humble speech as I am not accustomed to making, in troth, but I love thee, even if I do not adore thy churls."
She forced herself to eat, sitting on the edge of the chair with her back straight.
From the window he spoke hesitantly. "It is nought that ye will to go?"
She did not care to admit the depth of her desire to stay. Lightly she said, "Wysse, ne do I languish for the back of a horse again soon."
The floorboards creaked beneath the carpets. He came behind her. "Haply is rest and a soft bed you desire, my lady, after your meal."
If some mannered gallant had said such to her, she would have known how to understand it. But she heard naught beyond his careful courtesy in his voice, though again he stood very near her as he took up a napkin and poured hot ale from the hob. He set the kettle back.
"Thou hast not fulfilled thy own repose," she said, watching steam rise from the gold chalice and vanish against the background of patterned silk on the wall.
"Nay," he murmured, still close behind her. "Nay, lady."
He offered no dalliance, and her court wit deserted her. All the words that came into her head seemed green and foolish. He sat on his heels beside her chair and served her a roasted apple. She ate a few bites. He did not rise, but remained there like a man at ease.
She felt herself strangely daunted by him, overpowered by his greater size, the black line of his legs, the heavy square links of the belt that hung at his hips. He wore it as if it had no weight at all, though each joint, ornate and thick, studded with the silvery sable of marcasite crystals, would have balanced a cobblestone on the measuring scale. But in his velvet he moved effortlessly. When she glanced at him, his eyes were on her, his lashes showing very dark, his face somber, almost severe. As if he had forgotten himself by kneeling there, he rose instantly, drawing away.
Melanthe was not certain of whether he had made an invitation to share the bed or not. She ate slowly, delaying the end of her clear reason for being there in his chamber. As she sipped at the honeyed ale, she felt a miserable excitement, doubtful of what he wished. He said nothing to woo or dismiss her. She did not know if he was angry with her still. In this mute courtesy he could hide anything. She did not want to sleep alone, away from him.
At last she set down the chalice. "I will leave thee respite then, to take thy rest as thou art due."
She rose. With her eyes downcast she went to him and put her hands upon his shoulders. She reached on her toes and touched her lips to each cheek, lightly, taking a mannerly leave as if he were an honored guest or close kin. "Give thee good eve, sweet knight," she murmured.
He stood still, only turning his face slightly, returning pressure in response to each kiss. She let her hands slip down his arms. His palms turned up; he caught her fingers for an instant—and then let them slide through his.
She turned swiftly, taking up her cloak as she went to the door. At that moment she would gladly have given up all of her noble estate and forgone the cold and private luxury of the ladies' chamber. At least she did not intend to sleep with the dust: she would rouse out these useless minstrels for a fire and proper comfort, be they pleased by it or not. By hap she could find a maid or two among the women, to make the bower clean without moving any item from its sacred place, and then invite him there on the morrow, when he might be—
"Melanthe."
She halted with her hand on the door hasp. He had never before called her by her name.
He stood, all black, his legs set apart as if someone might come at him with a sword. "Art thou sore weary?" He made a trifling motion of his hand. "I ne am nought one to sleepen in the light of day."
Pleasure and relief soared through her. "Nay, how is this?" She crossed the carpet to him and lifted her hand to his forehead. "Dost thou go sick? I have seen thee snore with some success in daylight ere now."
"I n'would nought have thee depart so soon, if it please thee."
"Please me?" She let her hand slip down and sighed. "What—forfeit a cold chimney and empty bower, only to suit thy liking? Verily, thou art a tyrant, husband."
He caught her waist, holding her between his hands. She had been wary of mirrors, and compliments, but in his face as he looked down at her what she saw was desire, open and vehement, unembellished.
"Wilt thou have me?" he asked softly.
Almost, he frightened her, in the lightness of his hands and the calmness of his voice. He was like Gryngolet when she hunted, a silent rage, hushed violence, riding currents beyond knowing.
"Yea," she said. "Gladly."
His hold tightened a little. "Then I would hear—how I can best please you."
She rested her hands on his arms uncertainly. "I am pleased with thee," she said.
His jaw was tense. "On hap I am nought gentle enow, or skilled enow, or—what would delight thee."
All of her experience was in denying men. For delight she knew naught beyond kisses, and lying beneath him as she had done. There was more to it, experience and skill, as he said, and a new fear sprang alive in her, that he would expect her to know such things.
She made a small lift of her shoulders, feigning sport. "Thou moste guess what delights me."
He looked down upon her. He lifted his hand and drew his thumb across her mouth. His green eyes showed a new light, a trace of amusement. "Then I shall take experiment of thee, lady. Happens I haf made me a modest study of wicked delectation."
She murmured, "I thought thee chaste, monkish man."
"Yea, I haf been." He closed his eyes and bent to her, kissing the side of her mouth. "But no monk am I in my head, God grant me pardon," he whispered. His body drew closer, velvet and taut elegance. "My confessor has chastised me oft, and bade me study on my sins at length. And so, lady"—he kissed her, the hunger in it sinking down through her like a comet falling—"I have studied."
SEVENTEEN
Melanthe drew a breath, tasting him on her lips, inhaling his scent. "And what hast thou mastered in thy study, learned husband?"
He seemed to grow abashed, turning his face away. "My lady, it is all nonsense. Better thou shouldst sayen me how to give thee pleasure. Ne am I accomplished in luf wiles, truly."
She drew her palm down the soft nape of velvet on his chest. "I would hear what thou hast learned. For my pleasure." With a light pluck she freed the topmost golden buttons on his doublet.
He made a low unhappy laugh. "I know well that ye wields more skill in this art than I."
She stepped back. Standing in the half-light, he appeared no innocent, but a man full in prime of carnal boldness, no more chaste than a stallion might be chaste, being beautiful and strong and only what it was, a creature made for life and union.
"But a child am I in the craft," she said lightly. "Thou moste be my master, or nill we proceed far."
He made no move, but stood with his hands open, a signet gleaming on his middle finger, the light sliding on his golden belt.
She lifted her eyebrows. "Or be thou courageous in war and coward in chamber, knight, for shame?"
Sh
e had not expected such a crude hit to touch him, but he flushed at her words, response so quick that she thought it a taunt he must have heard before. The severity came into his face again, the hunting coldness. He closed the space she had made between them and lifted his hands. Without speaking, he began to unfasten her gown.
Melanthe stood still. The cote-hardie was not an elaborate fashion, but simple and warm for traveling, ermine-lined and buttoned. He pushed it off her shoulders. The fur hem brushed over her hands, dropping to the carpet.
Her white damask kirtle laced beneath her arms, fitting to her body. He loosened the cords. She felt the lace slip and knot in an eyelet. He worked at it, looking down, his face close to hers. A line formed beside his mouth. He gave the tie a tug, and then a jerk, breaking it, a force that made her take a step backward for balance. Without even unlacing the other side, he lifted the damask over her head and tossed it away.
Through her linen, she could feel the cool air. He opened his hands over her, his palms against her hips with only her thin shirt between.
Melanthe closed her eyes. Abruptly she put her arms about his neck, arching against him on tiptoe as she had done before, seeking that delicious sensation he had given her at Torbec.
Velvet touched her breasts. She could feel his hard belt, and silk and pressure against her belly—but somehow she could not come within reach of the pleasure. With a small sound of frustration, she fell back onto her heels.
He pulled her closer. "Lady," he whispered against her ear. "Lie you down."
His hands slid upward, lifting the linen with them. On the eastern carpet before the chimney, he stripped her of her shirt, baring her of all but her white hose and garters, drawing her down with him as he knelt.
She lifted her chin defiantly, resting back on her elbows, refusing to be mortified by her nakedness like some fluttering novice nun given to visions and starvation. Shameless, he had called her—so let him see.
But she was terrified, her heart beating so rapidly that she was sure he must discern it. She wasn't a delicate blonde beauty, frail and dainty—she was dark-haired and white-skinned, and not a girl. Above the garters at her knees, she had two bruises on one thigh from some encounter on their wild travels, and another at her hip. He could not have spanned her waist with his two hands, and her breasts were too full to be the high round strawberries, or nuts, or even pears, sung of the ladies in romances.
He only looked at them for an instant, before he averted his face and closed his eyes, sitting beside her with his weight on his hand.
She lost her rebellious nerve and curled upright, hugging her legs to her. "Uncommon sour I am to beholden, then," she said sullenly. "Iwysse, a hag as old as thee!"
"What?" he said, in a distracted voice.
He looked strange and uneasy, frozen in place. For a moment she was in fear that he was near a swoon or a fit.
"What passes?" she demanded, catching his arm.
He moistened his lips, pushing off her hand as if she offended him.
"Avoi!" she hissed. "Do not say me thou art praying now?" She let go and plumped back upon a cushion. "Monk man!"
"I am counting," he said tightly.
She stared at him. "Counting what?"
"The chimneys."
"The chimneys!" she cried.
He opened his eyes, looking straight ahead over her. "The chimneys, the doors—for God's sake, ne do I hardly know what I count." He drew a breath. "I am—better now."
He glanced at her, and then away again. Melanthe curled her fingers in her crumpled shirt. "Depardeu, I will cover myself, to spare thee this dire distress."
His hand landed firmly over hers. "Nay—lady. If you please." He turned a look full on her, his eyes near dark as the deep evergreens, the hidden life of winter. Like a secret his faint smile touched his mouth. "In faith, is nought affliction, but too great bliss."
Melanthe regarded him a moment. His courtesy was beyond calculating; he might say anything to maintain it. "In troth?"
He crossed himself, his face sober. She asked suspiciously, "N'is not my body uncomely, thou think?"
With a sound low in his throat, he stretched out his legs and lay at his length alongside her. He laid his hand between her breasts and drew his knuckles downward, over her belly. His dark lashes lowered. He smoothed his hand up to her knee and down her hose to her ankle, up again, then between her legs, burying his fingers in her curls.
"My lady, thou art lickerous." He smiled, pressing the heel of his hand against her.
And there it was, the pleasure, the sensation she remembered. Her breath caught. Her body seemed to stretch, to move outside of her mindful accord, arching up to meet the touch.
"Ah," she said, and strove to check her unsteady voice. "Ah, but this is a riddle." She took refuge in a mocking tone. "Lickerous to taste or lickerous lustful?"
"The both," he murmured, "an I prove fortunate."
She gave him an arch look. "This is luftalking indeed. I will think me I'm at court to hearen such."
His thumb slipped downward, seeking. Melanthe gave a little start and pressed her legs together to prevent him.
"Lady, thou art now at my court, where I rule." He gently resisted her effort, opening her knees. He stroked her, the inside of her thighs, her quaint, up and down again, touching her openly, making her flinch each time his fingers passed over that spot.
Her breasts and her body tingled. "Stop," she said, with a sharp intake of her breath.
"Nay, thou hatz bid me teach thee wicked delectation. This is the second sin of lust, my lady. Unchaste touch."
His thumb moved in a slow pulse. She swallowed. "That I can believe—is a sin," she said.
He shifted, moving up on his elbow. "And this is the first—" Without ceasing the stroke of his thumb, he leaned over her mouth. "Unchaste kissing." He tasted her with his tongue, then invaded deep. His fingers slid into her sheath, intruding, pressing, and stretching her. Melanthe whimpered into the double commixtion, the velvet weight and the hard graze of his jaw. Her heels slipped down the carpet; her legs strained as if she could have more.
He drew away, brushing his lips against her temple. While Melanthe searched for air, he bent to her breast. He kissed her there, at the same time thrusting his fingers full to the very depth of her.
All air seemed to vanish; she panted to regain it as he caressed her with his tongue, suckling her as if she were sweetmeat. Her body rose to him, to his mouth and his hand—unchaste beyond any recognition or heed that virtue might exist upon the earth.
"Unchaste kiss...unchaste touch." His breath was close to her skin, brushing and warming her as he spoke. "The third sin of lust is fornication, but we are wed, lady, so ne cannought I teach thee fornication. Ne also the fourth, o'less thou art a virgin, that I may seduce thee from thy purity."
"Nay," she whispered, curling her fingers in the thick silken nap of the carpet. "Not a virgin."
"I thought me nought so." His lips moved over her shoulder, a gentle searching. She could feel him smiling against her. "Ne can we adulter, neither by single or double, ne commit sacrilege—lest thou art under a religious vow?"
She gave a breathless laugh. "Look I to thee like a holy woman, knight?"
He lifted his head. "God shield," he said, with a sudden fierceness. "Nay, ye looks like my wife, fair and mortal—and no thing that we do between us be sinning, by the word of Saint Albert."
She lay against the cushion. In her life she had made certain that men thought her iniquitous, lethal in her loves and passions. The Princess Melanthe looked like no one's fair and mortal wife. But she had never before lain naked beside a man, uncovered, without shield or mask, reckless.
"Nothing?" She made a pout, stretching her arms overhead. "Alas, thou wilt destroy all my wicked disport."
He caught her chin, rubbing his thumb across her lips. "Does thou nought drive me to inordinate desire, wench, which is deadly sin, wed or no."
She brought her arms down about his
shoulders. "And is thy desire now ordinate, learned monk? Haply we will delay this loving then, and take us to the chapel for a day and night of prayer and fasting, to prove thee."
"Haply thou art the Arch-Fiend's daughter, come to harry me until I be undone body and soul."
"Nay, only thy wife, fair and mortal," she said virtuously. "Chaste, too, so far this day."
He leaned on his elbow, ungirding his golden belt. The linked bosses dropped to the carpet with a rich chink. "Thou art uneasy in the state, I trow."
Agreeable it was to trade words and luftalk. But the turn of his broad wrist, competent and brief, and the sound of the belt falling gave Melanthe pause. She drew her knees up, uncertain if he would mount her and have done—she did not object; she welcomed it, for that by God's send she would breed his child, but experience of four times, thrice with Ligurio and once with him, taught her that it marked the swift conclusion to all love-liking.
She had been most delighted with this play and was not eager to see it end so soon. As he leaned over her, she put her palm upon his chest. "What study is this, learned monk? Yet lacks my instruction. The first and second sins of lust only have I beheld."
But he did not answer, only gave her a thorough demonstration of the first again while he loosed the buttons on his doublet. She could feel the force of his intent; he had grown impatient with disport and love-amour. With a little dejection she let her hand relax, trailing it upward, sliding her fingers idly in his hair as he lifted himself over her.
She spread her legs, yielding obedience to what she owed him. Her body tensed slightly, anticipating the discomfort.
But he did not lie hard upon her; instead he held his weight up and kissed her mouth, and her throat, and her breasts. She sighed, savoring, drowning and pleasuring in the last moments.
The freed cloth of his shirt and his doublet brushed her skin. He drew hard on her teat. The sensation shot through her, half pain and half ecstasy. She clutched the loose velvet, pulled and arched, trying to bring him down to her.
"Merci." She gasped, all her muscles contracting with each tug and sweet spike of pain. "Merci, merci."