was treated to an excited declaration. “We’ve been at war!”
“War!” I turned, my razor in one hand, a finger of my other hand over a small bleeding nick. “What do you mean?”
He rose from the bed and held out his hand. “Here, give it to me.” Then, not waiting for my compliance, he took the razor from me. “I learned to do this for men when I was no older than Stephen. You have been spoiled, sir.” I frowned but allowed myself to be seated on the edge of the bed. He straddled my thighs, eyeing me up with a ludicrous expression he thought resembled one a barber might make. He put his free hand to my cheek, smoothing it wide over my warm skin then grazing the razor edge lightly across the stubble. I pulled the bedcovers across my lap. It was cold in the room, and I was dressed only in my shirt.
Oblivious to my discomfort, he shuffled closer, the insides of his leather-clad thighs tight against my naked ones.
I closed my eyes. “I am not spoiled. I was raised by men who did not grow hair on their faces until they were almost old men.”
I felt his hands still, whether from astonishment that I had volunteered some information about my past or from considering this odd fact, I do not know. It did sound unbelievable retold in this place. He carried on with his work, silent and thoughtful for a while.
I needed distraction from my increasingly obvious state. “Tell me about your war.”
At this he laid a finger across my lips to prevent me speaking more as the razor scraped along my chin. I don’t know how I managed to resist drawing that finger into my mouth. It seemed I was good at dissembling, for Aleksey sensed nothing of my desire from his touch and appeared to read nothing from the clenching of my fists upon my lap and my shiver of need.
“There was a raid across our borders on our grain stores. Very boring. We raided back; then we were invaded. A vast mounted army of twenty with some attendant hangers-on. My men were roused to great deeds of heroic valor, mainly to gain access to the hangers-on who, I’ve been reliably informed, are now hanging on to my men instead. We repelled the invasion, and Hesse-Davia is safe to limp its way out of the Dark Ages for another day.”
However much I questioned him, I could not untangle this odd story and make any truthful account from it. I had learned from the lesson of the belly scar that Aleksey liked to play down his achievements, and so I could not tell on this occasion where the truth of the events lay. He seemed to enjoy my skepticism. He made a theatrical cross over his heart in a particularly childish manner and then pouted when I continued to disbelieve him.
Eventually he declared himself done. Quite why, therefore, he continued to stand straddled over my naked thighs, I had no idea. I pushed him off and stood, pulling on some clean breeches, my back turned. Still he did not leave.
I said, a little more testily than I intended, “Do you not have somewhere else to be? I have much to do, as I wish to leave before the snow comes.”
I cursed inwardly as I swapped to a clean shirt. I had not thought about leaving until those unguarded words left me, but as they did, I knew it to be the truth. My job was done, and I had a very long way to go to get home. I realized Aleksey was still there, sitting now on the bed. He was turning my razor in his hands, running it idly over his skin. I went close and plucked it carefully from him.
He held on to my hand. “The bruising has gone.”
I had not realized that he had noticed my bruised hand. I wondered if he had been told how I received the injury. His hand was warm. I smiled faintly as I saw his nails still needed a good scrub. He had little injuries all over, bruises and nicks, as if, indeed, he had been in a battle. I switched the hold slightly so I had his arm in my hands and turned it, inspecting more damage. I went into the next room and returned with a small jar of ointment. I eased a finger full
“War!” I turned, my razor in one hand, a finger of my other hand over a small bleeding nick. “What do you mean?”
He rose from the bed and held out his hand. “Here, give it to me.” Then, not waiting for my compliance, he took the razor from me. “I learned to do this for men when I was no older than Stephen. You have been spoiled, sir.” I frowned but allowed myself to be seated on the edge of the bed. He straddled my thighs, eyeing me up with a ludicrous expression he thought resembled one a barber might make. He put his free hand to my cheek, smoothing it wide over my warm skin then grazing the razor edge lightly across the stubble. I pulled the bedcovers across my lap. It was cold in the room, and I was dressed only in my shirt.
Oblivious to my discomfort, he shuffled closer, the insides of his leather-clad thighs tight against my naked ones.
I closed my eyes. “I am not spoiled. I was raised by men who did not grow hair on their faces until they were almost old men.”
I felt his hands still, whether from astonishment that I had volunteered some information about my past or from considering this odd fact, I do not know. It did sound unbelievable retold in this place. He carried on with his work, silent and thoughtful for a while.
I needed distraction from my increasingly obvious state. “Tell me about your war.”
At this he laid a finger across my lips to prevent me speaking more as the razor scraped along my chin. I don’t know how I managed to resist drawing that finger into my mouth. It seemed I was good at dissembling, for Aleksey sensed nothing of my desire from his touch and appeared to read nothing from the clenching of my fists upon my lap and my shiver of need.
“There was a raid across our borders on our grain stores. Very boring. We raided back; then we were invaded. A vast mounted army of twenty with some attendant hangers-on. My men were roused to great deeds of heroic valor, mainly to gain access to the hangers-on who, I’ve been reliably informed, are now hanging on to my men instead. We repelled the invasion, and Hesse-Davia is safe to limp its way out of the Dark Ages for another day.”
However much I questioned him, I could not untangle this odd story and make any truthful account from it. I had learned from the lesson of the belly scar that Aleksey liked to play down his achievements, and so I could not tell on this occasion where the truth of the events lay. He seemed to enjoy my skepticism. He made a theatrical cross over his heart in a particularly childish manner and then pouted when I continued to disbelieve him.
Eventually he declared himself done. Quite why, therefore, he continued to stand straddled over my naked thighs, I had no idea. I pushed him off and stood, pulling on some clean breeches, my back turned. Still he did not leave.
I said, a little more testily than I intended, “Do you not have somewhere else to be? I have much to do, as I wish to leave before the snow comes.”
I cursed inwardly as I swapped to a clean shirt. I had not thought about leaving until those unguarded words left me, but as they did, I knew it to be the truth. My job was done, and I had a very long way to go to get home. I realized Aleksey was still there, sitting now on the bed. He was turning my razor in his hands, running it idly over his skin. I went close and plucked it carefully from him.
He held on to my hand. “The bruising has gone.”
I had not realized that he had noticed my bruised hand. I wondered if he had been told how I received the injury. His hand was warm. I smiled faintly as I saw his nails still needed a good scrub. He had little injuries all over, bruises and nicks, as if, indeed, he had been in a battle. I switched the hold slightly so I had his arm in my hands and turned it, inspecting more damage. I went into the next room and returned with a small jar of ointment. I eased a finger full
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