“Why, damisela, if men go into danger of death, it is the fortunes of war; why should women be immune from that fortune? Most women accept it peacefully enough,” he said, laughing, and noticed that she did not look away or simper or giggle as most of the women he knew would have done, shocked or pretending to be so.
She only said, quietly, “I suppose it is so; the excitement, the relief of being alive, instead of dead, the general shock of battle… I had not thought. I would not have accepted it peacefully if the Dry-towners had won, though. I am very glad they did not; glad I am still alive.” She was standing close enough to him so that he could smell some faint perfume from her hair and her cloak. “I was frightened, for fear, if the battle went against us, I should not have courage to kill myself, but would accept—ravage, bondage, rape— rather than death—death seemed very horrible to me as I stood and watched men die—”
He turned and took her hand in his; she did not protest He said in a low voice, “I am glad you are still alive, Melora.”
She said, just as low, “So am I.”
He drew her against him and kissed her, feeling with amazement how very soft her heavy body and full breasts felt against him, how warm her lips were under his. He could feel her yielding herself wholly to the kiss; but she drew back afterward, a little, and said softly, “No, I beg you, Bard. Not here, not like this, not with all your men around us… I would not refuse you, you have my word of that,” she said, “but not like this; I have been told… it is not right…”
Reluctantly, Bard let her go. I could love her so easily, he thought. She is not beautiful, but she is so warm, so sweet… and all the pent-up excitement of the day surged in him. And yet he knew that she was right, too. Where there were no accessible women for the other men, it went against all decency and custom for the commander to have his own; Bard was a soldier and he knew better than to take any privilege his men could not share. Her willingness made it all the worse. He had never before felt so close to any woman.
Yet—he drew a deep breath of resignation. He said, “The fortunes of war, Melora. Perhaps—one day—”
“Perhaps,” she said gently, giving him her hand and looking into his eyes. It seemed to him that he had never wanted any woman so much. Next to her all the women he had known were like children, Lisarda no more than a child playing with her dolls, even Carlina childish and unripe. And yet, to his surprise, he had no desire to press the matter. He knew perfectly well that he could put a compulsion on her, so that she would come, unseen by any of his men, to his bed after the whole camp slept; and yet the very thought filled him with loathing. He wanted her just as she was, her whole self, of her free will, desiring him. He knew that if he had only her body, all that made her Melora would be gone. Her body, after all, was only that of a fat, ungainly woman, young but already sagging and slovenly. It was something more that made her so infinitely desirable to him, and for a moment he wondered, and raised his eyes, blurting out the question.
“Have you put a spell on me, Melora?”
She raised her hands, laying them on either side of his face, the fat fingers closing around his cheeks with great tenderness, and looked straight into his eyes. Beyond the fire the men were singing a rowdy song:
Four-and-twenty leroni went to Ardcarran,
When they came back again, they couldn’t use their laran—
“Ah, no, Bard,” Melora said very gently. “It is only that we have touched, you and I; we have been honest with each other, and that is a rare thing between a man and a woman. I love you well; I wish things were different, that we were somewhere else than in this place tonight.” She leaned forward and touched his lips, very gently, with her own, not with desire but with a tenderness which warmed him more than the wildest passion. “Good night, my dear friend.”
He pressed her fingers and let her go, watching her walk away, with regret and a sadness that was new to him.
All the trailmen came, the place was bursting at the seams;
We watched them a-doing it, a-swinging from the beams.
Four-and-twenty farmers, bringing sacks of nuts;
Couldn’t get the strings untied…
Beltran said behind him, “They seem to be enjoying themselves. They’ve got some new verses I hadn’t heard.” He chuckled. “I remember when our tutors beat us for copying the dirtier verses of that one in Carlina’s copybook.”
Bard said, glad to have something else to think about, “I remember you telling him that it proved girls shouldn’t learn to read.”
“But I would as soon leave reading to women who have nothing more important to do,” Beltran said, “though I suppose I will have to sign state papers and such matters.” He leaned over Bard; his breath was sweet and winy, and Bard realized the boy had been drinking, perhaps a bit more than he could handle. “It’s a good night to get drunk.”
“How is your wound?”
Beltran chuckled and said, “Wound, hell! My horse ran away with me down the hill and I slipped in my saddle and bashed my face into the saddle horn, and gave myself a nosebleed; so I fought all the battle with blood pouring down my face! I think I must have looked very fearsome!” He edged under Bard’s tarpaulin, pitched with the open end toward the fire, and sat down there. The tarpaulin over them kept the snow off. “It seems to be clearing, at last”
“We’ll have to find out if any of the men have any skill at driving wagons and handling pack beasts.”
Beltran yawned hugely. “Now that it’s over, I feel I could sleep for a tenday. Look, it’s early still, but most of the men are drunk as monks at midwinter.”
“What else do you expect them to do, with no women around?”
Beltran shrugged. “I don’t grudge them their skinful. Between you and me, Bard, I’m as well pleased… I remember after the battle of Snow Glens, a group of the younger men dragged me with them to a whorehouse in the town—” He made a fastidious grimace. “I’ve no taste for such games.”
“I prefer willing companions, not paid ladies, myself,” Bard agreed, “though, after a battle like this, I doubt I’d know the difference.” Yet inwardly he knew he was not telling the truth. Tonight he wanted Melora, and even if he had had the pick of all the courtesans of Thendara or Carcosa, he would still have chosen her. Would he have chosen her over Carlina? He found he did not want to think about that. Carlina was his handfasted wife, and that was different.
“You haven’t had enough to drink, foster brother,” Beltran said, and handed him a bottle. Bard put it to his lips and drank, long and deep, glad to feel the strong wine blurring away the pain of knowing that Melora had wanted him, as much as he wanted her, and that he had, surprising himself, agreed to let her go. Had she scorned him, regarded him as easy, a soft touch, a green boy who was afraid to impose his will on a woman? Was she playing games with him? No, he would have staked his manhood on her honesty…
One of the men was playing a rryl. They shouted for Master Gareth to come and sing for them, but Melora came quietly from their tent.
“My father begs that you will excuse him,” she said. “He is in great pain from his wound and cannot sing.”
“Will you come and share our wine, lady?” But their tone was very respectful, and Melora shook her head. “I will take my father a glass, if I may. It will help him to sleep, perhaps; but my kinswoman and I must care for him, and so we will not drink. But I thank you.” Her eyes sought out Bard where he sat in the darkness across the fire, and he thought there was a new sadness in them.
“I thought he was not much wounded,” Bard said.
“Why, so did I,” Beltran said, “though I have heard that sometimes the Dry-towners put poisons of one sort or another on their blades. Never heard of anyone who died from it, though.” Again he yawned, hugely.
The men around the fire sang ballad after ballad. At last the fire sank down and was covered, and the men, in groups of two or three or four against the cold, settled down into their blankets. Bard went quietly to the ten
t shared by the women and now by the wounded laranzu.
“How does Master Gareth?” he asked, stooping close to the entrance.
“The wound is greatly inflamed, but he is sleeping,” Mirella whispered, kneeling at the doorway. “I thank you for inquiring.”
“Is Melora within?”
Mirella looked up at him, her eyes wide and serious, and suddenly he knew that Melora had confided in her—or had the younger girl read Melora’s mind and her thoughts?
“She is sleeping, sir.” Mirella hesitated, then said in a rush, “She cried herself to sleep, Bard.” Their eyes met, with sympathy and warmth. She touched his hand, lightly. He found that he spoke through a lump in his throat.
“Good night, Mirella.”
“Good night, my friend,” she said softly, and he knew that she did not lightly use the word. Filled with a strange mixture of bitterness and warmth, he strode away, back to the dying campfire and the darkened half-tent he shared with Beltran. In silence, he drew off boots, sword belt, unstrapped the dagger at his waist.
“You are bredin to a Dry-town bandit, Bard.” Beltran laughed in the darkness. “For you have exchanged daggers, one for the other…”
Bard hefted the dagger in his hand. “I doubt I shall ever fight with it, for it is too light for my hand,” he said, “but it is marvelously ornamental, worked with copper and gems, and it is a legitimate prize of war; so I will wear it upon great occasions, and excite the envy of all.” He slid the weapon under the flap of the tarpaulin. “Poor devil, he lies colder than we do tonight.”
They stretched out, side by side. Bard’s thoughts were with the woman who cried herself to sleep, across the camp. He had drunk enough to blur the worst of the pain, but not all.
Beltran said into the darkness, “I was not as much afraid as I thought I would be. Now it is over, it does not seem so frightening…”
“It never does,” Bard said. “Afterward it is simple—even exhilarating—and all you want is a drink, or a woman, or both—”
“Not I,” Beltran said. “I think a woman would sicken me at this point; I would rather drink with my comrades. What have women to do with war?”
“Ah, well, you’re still young,” Bard said affectionately, and his hand closed over his foster brother’s. Not knowing whether it was his own thought or Beltran’s, a vagrant thought floated across his mind, I wish Geremy were with us… He remembered, at the edge of sleep, nights when all three of them had slept together like this, on hunting trips, fire watch; fumbled, childish experimentation in the dark; memories pleasant, kindly, soothing the raw edges of his pain over Melora; he had loyal friends and comrades, foster brothers who loved him well.
At the edge of sleep, half dreaming, he felt Beltran’s body pressed tight against his, and the boy whispered, “I would— would pledge to you, too, foster brother; shall we exchange knives, too?”
Bard, shocked awake, stared and burst out laughing.
“By the Goddess!” he said coarsely, “you are younger than I thought, Beltran! Do you still think I am boy enough to take my pleasure with boys? Or do you think because you are Carlina’s brother I will take you for her?” He could not stop laughing. “Well, well, who would have thought it—that Geremy Hastur is still young enough to take field-license with his playmates!” The word he used was a coarser one, army gutter slang, and he heard Beltran’s choked cry of shame and shock in the darkness. “Well, whatever Geremy may choose to do, Beltran, I am not fond of such childish games. Can’t you behave like a man?”
Even in the dark he could see that Beltran’s face was flooded with angry color. The boy choked, half crying, and sat up. He said, through a sob of rage, “Damn you, you whoreson bastard! I swear, I will kill you for that, Bard—”
“What, from love to hatred so quickly?” mocked Bard. “You are still drunk, bredillu. Come, little brother, it’s only a game, you’ll outgrow it someday. Lie down and go back to sleep now, and don’t be silly.” He spoke kindly, now that his first shock was past. “It’s all right.”
But Beltran was sitting bolt upright in the darkness, his whole body stiff with rage. He said between his teeth, “You taunt me, you—! Bard mac Fianna, I swear to you, roses will grow in Zandru’s ninth hell before you take Carlina to bed!” He got up and strode away, snatching up his boots and thrusting his feet into them; and Bard, shocked, sat staring after him.
He knew, sobered as if by a dash of the still-falling snow, that he had made a grave mistake. He should have remembered how young Beltran really was, and refused him more gently. What the boy wanted, no doubt, was only affection and closeness; as Bard himself had wanted. He need not have taunted the youngster’s manhood. He felt a sudden impulse to scramble up and run after his foster brother, apologize for mocking him, make up the quarrel.
But the memory of the insult Beltran had flung held him motionless. He called me whoreson, Bard mac Fianna, not di Asturien as is my right now. Although down deep he knew that Beltran had simply spoken the first insult that came into his head, the truth of it hurt, beyond enduring. Angrily, gritting his teeth, he lay down again. Let Prince Beltran sleep in the wagons, or among the horses, for all he cared!
* * *
Chapter Five
« ^ »
At midwinter-night, Ardrin of Asturias celebrated his victory over the Duke of Hammerfell.
The winter was unusually mild, and folk came from far and wide. The son of the duke was there; Lord Hammerfell had sent him to be fostered at the court of Asturias—so it was said. They all knew, as the boy himself knew, that he was a hostage for peace between Hammerfell and Asturias. Nevertheless, King Ardrin, who was a kindly man, introduced the boy as his fosterling, and it was obvious that he was being well treated and given the best of everything, from tutors and governesses to lessons in swordplay and languages, the proper education for a prince. The same education, Bard thought, looking at the child in his elaborate festival clothing, that he himself had had, at the side of Geremy Hastur and Prince Beltran.
“Still,” Carlina said, “I feel sorry for the child, sent so young away from his home. You were older, Bard. You were turned twelve, and already as tall as a man. How old is young Garris—eight, or is it nine?”
“Eight, I think,” Bard said, thinking that his own father could have come, or could, if he wished, have sent his young legitimate son Alaric. He could not count bad weather an excuse, and Alaric was old enough to be sent for fostering.
“Would you like to dance again, Carlina?”
“Not yet, I think,” she said, fanning herself. She wore a green gown, just a little less elaborate than the one she had worn at midsummer to their handfasting; he felt that the color did not suit her, making her look pale and sallow.
Geremy came toward them and said, “Carlie, you have not yet danced with me. Come now, Bard, you’ve had your share, and Ginevra is not here. She has gone to stay with her mother for the holiday, and I am not sure she will come back. Her mother has quarreled with Queen Ariel—”
“For shame on you for gossiping, Geremy!” Carlina struck him playfully with her fan. “I am sure that my mother and the Lady Marguenda will soon make it up, and then we shall have Ginevra back with us. Bard, go and dance with one of my mother’s ladies. You cannot stand here all night beside me! There are many ladies eager to dance with the king’s own banner bearer!”
Bard said sullenly, “Most of them don’t want to dance with me. I am too clumsy!”
“Still, we cannot spend all evening here! Go and dance with Lady Dara. She is so clumsy herself that you will be graceful as a chieri beside her, and she will never notice if you step on her feet, for she is so fat she has not been on speaking terms with her own feet for twenty years…”
“And you reprove me for talking gossip, Carlie?” Geremy chuckled and took his foster sister’s arm. “Come and dance, breda. So already you are giving Bard orders as if he were your husband?”
“Why, he is all but so,” Carlina said, laughing. “I t
hink we have the right to give orders to one another already!” She smiled gaily at Bard and moved away on Geremy’s arm.
Left alone, Bard did not take her advice, or go and offer himself to the ungainly Lady Dara as a partner. He went toward the buffet and poured himself a glass of wine. King Ardrin and a group of his councillors were standing there, and amiably made room for Bard to join them.
“A good festival to you, foster son.”
“And to you, kinsman,” Bard said—he called the king foster father only in private.
“I have been telling Lord Edelweiss what you told me about the folk who live near Moray’s Mill,” the King said. “It is chaos and anarchy for so many folk to live with no proper overlord. Come spring thaw, I think we must ride out and set things in order there. If every little village claims to be independent and to make its own laws, there will be borders everywhere, and a man will not be able to ride half a day without needing to cope with some new set of laws.”
“The lad has a head on his shoulders,” said Lord Edelweiss, a gray-haired man dressed like an elaborate fop, and behind Bard’s back, he heard the old man say, “Pity your own older son shows no such talent for strategy and war skills. Let’s hope he has some skill at statesmanship, or that boy there will have the kingdom in his hands before he’s twenty-five years old!”
King Ardrin said stiffly, “Bard is Beltran’s devoted foster brother; they are bredin. I need fear nothing for Beltran in Bard’s hands.”
Bard bit his lip, troubled. He and Beltran had been hardly on speaking terms since that battle and its aftermath; Beltran, tonight, had given him no midwinter gift, though he had meticulously sent the prince an egg from his best hunting hawk, to be hatched under a palace hen; a thoughtful gift and one that would normally have brought delighted thanks from his foster brother. In fact, it seemed that Beltran was avoiding him.
Again Bard cursed himself for his own folly in quarreling with Beltran. Raw-edged over his own frustration, the enforced separation from Melora—for he knew that she had wanted him then, as much as he wanted her—he had lashed out at Beltran because the boy was the most convenient object on which to vent his own fury. He should, instead, have taken that chance to cement his own bond with the young prince. Damn it, he missed their old closeness! Well, at least Beltran had not yet poisoned Geremy’s mind against him… he hoped. It was hard to tell what went on behind Geremy’s somber face, and although it might only have been that Geremy was missing his Ginevra, Bard found that hard to believe. They were not handfasted, and Ginevra was not really of sufficiently noble birth to be a proper match for the heir to Hastur of Carcosa.
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