by Lisa Cach
“Lady Nimia!”
“Hmm?” I leaned over the basin and sloshed another wave of water over myself. It wicked down the fabric to my loins, giving hints of the body art there, as well.
“Your, your . . . your breasts are showing.”
I looked down at them. “Oh, I’m sorry—were you concerned about the tattoos? I assure you, they are not meant to be secret; at least I don’t believe so. They are traditional for the Phanne, from what I remember of my early childhood. They are to be worn with pride. Would you like to see them fully?” I reached for the shoulder of the gown.
“No! I mean, yes, I am interested, but . . .” He ran his hand through his hair, and looked up at the tree branches. “It would not be proper.”
“Because the symbols are not Christian? I thought the Visigoths were known for their tolerance of other faiths.”
He met my gaze, and I could sense his struggle to keep his glance from dipping lower. “It’s not proper for a man to look upon a woman’s body.”
“Can a woman look upon a man’s?”
“She would not want to.”
I burst into laughter. “Who told you that?”
His face colored. “It’s the truth. My wife, she did not want a lamp lit when we . . .”
I blinked at him, astonished. “Did you never see each other naked?”
“Of course not.”
“But you have Gesalic,” I said.
“One does not need to be naked to create a child.”
“Some parts of you need to be.” I pictured a dark room, and hands fumbling under sheets and undergarments. A quick joining, a silent woman suffering the thrusts of a man in her dry cunny until it was over. “For a married couple not to gaze upon each other . . . In truth?”
He nodded.
“That makes me feel terribly sad.”
He seemed uncomfortable and uncertain, and I didn’t want him to withdraw. “Never mind all that,” I said, turning my knees forward and sitting primly with my hands in my lap. “There are differences between how peoples do these things, yes? Greeks, Franks, Huns, Egyptians: they all have their different ways, which must surely seem shocking to their neighbors. It’s wrong of me to pass judgment on your way, however odd it may seem to me. We’ll speak of other things, shall we? Tell me about this courtyard. From the height of the trees, it must have been here a long while. Did you grandfather build it?”
His mind seemed lost in imaginings of what, exactly, Huns and Egyptians did that was so different, and it took him several moments to blink and come back to me. “No, a Roman built it, just as the Romans built all the structures, both physical and governmental, that we rely on for life to flow smoothly.”
“You admire them.”
“Since I’ve become king and come to fully understand the effort and order it takes to serve the people, yes. I admire their efficiency.”
“And yet, Gaul is yours now, not theirs. It’s a wonder your tribe could overcome them, if they were so ordered and efficient.”
“I think it was inevitable. When you hire foreign armies to fight for you, and pay them with your own lands, you must know what will happen in the end.”
“It’s not a mistake you’ll make?”
“I hope never to be in such a position. I would rather rely on talk and diplomacy than on swords and bloodshed.”
Such a different outlook from Clovis, who would prefer to smash every obstacle in his path. I wondered which way would prove most successful, in the end. “Diplomacy seems to be working, so far.”
“So far. Though Sygarius is a small problem that I wish to keep from growing larger.”
Ah, the important topic. Was this the point of this meeting? I had been hoping for something less . . . practical. “Let me return Sygarius to Soissons to face justice, and he will no longer be anyone’s problem.”
Alaric sighed. “The trouble with diplomacy is that no solution is as simple as the stroke of a sword could make it.”
He sounded depressingly like Sid in that moment, looking at what I thought to be a simple issue from not just two sides, but three or four. I didn’t know if he was needlessly complicating things, if he was timid in his decision making, or he had a wisdom far beyond the brutal cleverness of Clovis.
Assuming he was more wise than timid, how best to weight his choice in my favor? I could debate his reasons with him, or . . . perhaps the best course was not to direct him at all. To, instead, call on his manly instincts.
I gazed steadily up at him. “I will put my faith in you, that whatever diplomatic choice you believe to be right will not be one that puts either me or my son in danger from Sygarius. I place myself, and my son, under your protection.” I lifted my hands to him.
He could do nothing but take them, though he looked surprised, and held my hands as gently as if they were glass. “It is not a trust I take lightly.”
“Nor is it one I give lightly. You are the only man who has ever earned it from me.”
His hands tightened on mine. “I’m honored.”
I hoped so. I was taking a page from Sid’s book, and counting on his pride. Raised so high in my opinion as he now was, he wouldn’t want to disappoint me.
That was the idea, at least.
I smiled and rose, my hands still in his. I swayed closer to him, indulging my urge to breathe in his scent, and feel the size of his body in the air around me. “Now that I am in your hands, I can relax and enjoy myself. I have had such powerful yearnings since last evening, that I’ve hardly known what to do with myself.”
“Wh-what manner of yearnings?”
I wasn’t going to make it that easy. No, I had other plans that required a specific setting. His talk of the prudery expected even in marriage had given me a wicked idea. “I have been yearning . . . for soothing greenery. I should like nothing more at this moment than to stroll in a garden. Is there one near?”
“A large one, the other side of that wall,” he said, nodding toward it. “More an orchard than a pleasure garden.”
“Perfect.”
We strolled between the rows of trees on grass turned dry and yellow by summer. I recognized walnut, pear, apricot, apple, cherry; some were past fruiting, others were coming into their prime. Overripe pears had fallen to the ground, the scent of fermentation heady in the air and drawing bees that grew drunk and happy on the melting fruit. The worst heat of the day had eased, and with it the rattling of the cicadas: their ear-numbing noise was being overtaken by the sweet rhythmic chirping of crickets. The sky had taken on a golden hue as the sun lowered to the west, its warmth now something to be savored rather than endured.
My hand was tucked in the crook of Alaric’s arm; I’d taken it without his invitation. I was probably being rudely familiar, given that he was a king and thus above the rest of humanity, but instinct told me he welcomed the intrusion. I knew what it was like to be lonely, and starved for human touch: how much worse to have not only your position, but your sense of morality dictating that you be forever set apart from others. It was inhumane.
I had no intention of letting such an attractive man suffer.
“I—” I started to say.
“I—” he said.
We looked at each other and smiled. We’d been walking in what I had hoped was companionable silence; I wanted him to get used to me.
“You go ahead,” I said.
“I was going to ask about the music you played last night. I have never heard anything like it. Was it a song from the Franks?”
“It was of my own creation, and unplanned. Sometimes I play what I feel inside, and last night was one of those times.”
“What were you feeling?”
I idly stroked the inside of his elbow with my thumb. “A certain . . . pleasure in having met you. I fear I was quite lost in myself and did not take a care for my audience; there w
ere many who did not look pleased with my music. Was it so dreadful? What did you feel while you listened?”
“I felt . . . awakened.”
I glance up at him, and caught a tinge of color on his cheeks. “ ‘Awakened’ is not a bad thing, I hope.” I was curious, now: what exactly had Alaric felt while I played? I wanted to know how much of what was in my own imaginings had bled into his.
“It didn’t seem so at the time.”
“Does it now?”
“I haven’t decided.”
A careful thinker, Alaric. Too careful, perhaps. What a burden that must be, to be forever held back from pleasure by one’s own thoughts. “Tell me more. You were awakened: to what?”
He shook his head. “It’s not a fit topic for a lady’s ears.”
“It’s a fit topic for this lady’s ears. You cannot embarrass me, I promise.”
“I would embarrass myself.”
“That is of your own choice.”
He frowned at me.
I explained. “One can choose not to be embarrassed. I should think it would be especially easy for a king: you simply choose not to care what others think.”
“I would never make such a choice, concerning a lady.”
I squeezed his arm and leaned the side of my breast against it. “You’re an honorable man. Indeed, I understand how you could cause great upset to a lady of your court, raised with modest Christian values, if you were to speak of . . . whatever it is that you will not tell me. I, however, am from elsewhere. My beliefs are different.”
“And your god?”
“I have no god but Nature.”
“No gods at all?”
I shrugged. “Not truly, no. Not in the sense of some being to call by name and implore for help. I have perhaps seen too many peoples, with too many gods, to think that one god is the correct one.”
“The Romans thought they were all the same gods, only called by different names. Perhaps your ‘Nature’ is God as I know him.”
“Perhaps.” I could see it pleased him to think so, and it didn’t hurt my plan for seducing him. “I do wonder why He has taught us such different lessons about our bodies. I feel a truth within me that goes against all that your priests have told you. I think that you feel this truth, too.”
“What truth?”
We had come out of the trees and into an herb garden of silvery, sun-loving plants: sage, thyme, rosemary, lavender. I released his arm and snapped off a sprig of rosemary; I rubbed it between my fingertips and brought it to my nose, breathing deeply of the sharp pine scent. I turned to face Alaric. “The truth that we are as much creatures of nature as the bees and butterflies, the trees and plants, the rivers and rocks. No animal or plant has shame over its body. I don’t understand why people do. If God created your body, then surely it would be an insult to Him to be ashamed of it, or ashamed of the desires He gave you for mounting a woman.”
Alaric made a choking sound.
“Does a stallion have shame over mounting a mare?” I asked. “No. Do birds feel shame for eating seeds, and fulfilling their desire to eat? Does a flower feel shame when a bee crawls inside her petals and gathers pollen? Are trees embarrassed when their leaves fall in autumn? No. It is natural. It is good. It is as your god intended. So I do not understand why you must make rules against what your god meant you to feel.”
“We have self-awareness. They are dumb beasts who know no better, and cannot choose to rise above their low natures. . . .”
“And I say there are no low natures, nor sin in fulfilling our natural desires. There is only rightness in enjoying the body that He gave us.”
“We are not in Eden. We have eaten of the fruit of knowledge, and know that our nakedness is shameful.”
I nodded. “I have heard this story, but think the wrong lesson was taken from it. It was an evil demon who gave the fruit to Adam and Eve, wasn’t it? The demon wanted to make them think badly of their beautiful bodies. I think they were forced to leave the garden because they were foolish enough to believe that their God-given bodies were shameful. If they had seen that for the lie that it was, they could have stayed. God was angry that they didn’t like his gift.”
Alaric’s lips were parted, his brow creased. “I don’t think that’s the point at all.”
I untied the sash at my waist and let it fall to the ground.
“What are you doing?”
“Better explaining my point.” I unfastened the shoulders and let the gown fall to my ankles, leaving me naked except for a pair of dainty red slippers that I stepped out of. I felt the dry grass crunch beneath my soles, and curled my toes in pleasure as I reached up and removed the pins from my hair. It tumbled down in a warm river, sliding like silk over my shoulders and breasts, and brushing against the tops of my buttocks.
“Lady Nimia!” He sounded scandalized, his gaze flashing to me and away, to me and away. He was starting to sweat.
“Look at me.”
“I cannot.”
I stepped closer and took his hands. “Look at me.”
He shut his eyes tight.
I lifted his hands and placed his palms against my breasts, and moaned softly.
His eyes flew open and fixed on my breasts. As if against his will, his hands contracted, gently squeezing.
“It feels so right,” I said on a breath, leaning into his touch. “Does it not feel good to you?”
His only answer was a harsh laugh of pain as much as desire.
“Do you feel my nipples against your palms? The hardness of them . . . that is from the pleasure you give me. Let me feel your palms brush across them. Pinch them. Suckle on them. Do what your body knows to be right.”
“I can’t think,” he said, as his hands moved and he pinched each nipple between two long fingers, sliding their length along the small buds. “You’re making it impossible to think.”
“There need be no thinking,” I said, and standing on tiptoes I raised my lips to his. His hands slid around my back as I wrapped my arms around his neck, and I brushed my lips against his, then nibbled gently at that finely shaped lower lip, drawing it between mine and painting its surface with the tip of my tongue.
He pressed me closer, one hand lowering to my buttock and hovering there for a moment before gathering the courage to squeeze. I moaned to encourage him, and rubbed my breasts against his chest, delighting in the stimulation.
He began to kiss me back, still restrained, still uncertain, but I felt the pounding of his heart and there was no arguing with the tree branch wedged between our bodies. I reached for his belt, unfastening it with quick tugs. When it was gone I tugged up his tunic and slid my hand down the front of his breeches until I found his mentula, rigid and hot. It flexed in my hand as I took hold.
“God in Heaven,” he gasped.
“This is God’s work. This is how He created us. It is good, and beautiful.” I pushed his breeches off his hips, and then with his help tore the tunic off over his head. When he was nude, I stepped back to get a better view. He stood with his arms hanging from his muscled shoulders, his rod plunging forward like a pike. He had a fine mat of black hair over his chest that formed a V mid-chest, then painted a line straight down his flat belly to that magnificent sex. “Alaric . . .” I sighed. “You are glorious.”
“As are you.” He reached tentatively for me, as if still frightened of this nakedness without shame.
I took his hand and slid it down my side, and then around to the front. I parted my legs and pressed his hand to my cunny. “Have you ever seen a woman’s sex?”
He shook his head.
I tugged him down beside me onto a wide swath of low-growing thyme, the fragrance rising around us as we crushed it beneath our knees. The golden light had deepened to the magic hour before twilight, and the sky overhead was turning a richer, more seductive blue. I saw Venus
send out her first flickers amid the heavens.
I faced him, and then lay back, bending my knees and parting my thighs. “Look at me, Alaric. Explore me. Touch me where you want. Gaze upon my every part, and see what God has created for you to enjoy.”
I don’t know how much he heard beyond “look at me,” for a fire lit in his eyes and all semblance of civilized control left his face, leaving him unrecognizable. The planes of his face grew harder, and the softness left his eyes. His brow cleared, and his head lowered like a cat on the hunt. I belatedly saw that this was a man who had only ever known how to handle the drought of no. Yes was a flood that no riverbanks could hold.
I was about to be washed away.
He surprised me in how he did it. With no warning of his intent, he threw his body to the ground and lowered his face to my cunny. I felt the warmth of his breath, and then heard him inhale, his nose touching the top of my folds. With gentle fingers he parted my petals, and drew his head back far enough to gaze on what he’d uncovered.
I reached down and touched my stamen. “This is my most sensitive spot. It is like the head of your rod, but needs much softer handling.” I lowered my finger to my gates, and slid the tip within. “This is my passage.”
The moment I withdrew my hand, one of his long fingers found my gates and pressed inside, exploring. I felt him moving from side to side, discovering the shape and texture, and quickly learning to turn his hand palm-up to better shape his finger to my passage. He slid it all the way in, until I could feel the pressure against the end. He curled his finger upward and slid it slowly back out; I jerked when his fingertip glided over that strange area of sensation hidden inside. He noticed, and swirled his fingertip against it.
I moaned, and clamped my feet against his sides.
“I had the strangest vision,” he said, withdrawing his finger, “when you played the cithara. I saw myself doing this.” And so saying he gathered his four long fingers together and eased them through my gates.
I clawed the thyme and arched my back, and whimpered in surprise, in distress, in erotic overload. I didn’t know if the stretching pressure was too much for me—and it didn’t matter if it was: the knowledge that he was sending those four bunched fingers into me had its own sensual power.