King of the Scepter'd Isle (Song of Earth) by Michael G. Coney Page B

and weighted around with rocks. Broad leaves hung from the branch inside the tent. There was barely room for the two of them. Arthur lay with his back against the bole, and Nyneve sat opposite, her hands clasped around her knees. “Nyneve,” said Arthur after a long silence, “I wish I knew what was going on. I wish I could remember something,
anything,
about my life before I woke up in that boat. You keep telling me I’m the reincarnation of some legend—and that I’m ‘destined for greatness,’ as you put it. Well, I’ve got to tell you this. I don’t feel destined.”
    “What
do
you feel?”
    “I feel kind of damp. The rain’s trickling down the walls of this tent. And I feel like … like a pawn. Nothing at all like a king.”
    An overwhelming feeling of love and pity took hold of Nyneve as she watched him. Was it fair, what she was doing? He looked so unhappy, with water dribbling down the tree trunk behind him, bareheaded and barefooted, Bull’s-eye shivering and stinking at his side. He was dressed in the green shirt and trousers he’d borrowed from the village. After all, he couldn’t spend his days permanently encased in armor. … She straightened her legs so they lay one on either side of Arthur’s outstretched right leg and leaned forward to bring her breasts into view under the loose blouse.
How do you seduce a future king?
she wondered. He’d never shown any sign of noticing she was a woman.
    “Why don’t you stop worrying about all that stuff for a while?” she said softly.
    “Huh?” Heraised his eyes to hers. “I wish I felt I belonged,” he said.
    She hitched herself forward so that her groin pressed against his foot. “Why don’t you stop worrying?” she repeated, her voice a whisper.
    He was regarding her in surprise, as though making some slow, radical reassessment of the situation. “Huh?”
    “How does that feel?”
    “What?”
    “Your foot, silly.”
    “Oh. … Oh, God, Nyneve.” His toes moved a fraction, and then were still, stiff.
    “Listen, you must have known
something
before you woke up in that boat. Otherwise how could you speak the language?”
    “It’s not that.” His foot had withdrawn an inch.
    “What is it, then?”
    “You’re … so
young.
You’ve been looking after me. It would be wrong to … to take advantage of you.”
    She moved forward again, impatiently, trapping his foot between clenched thighs. “Who’s taking advantage?” There was irritation in her voice. “Doesn’t it occur to you that you’re embarrassing me, sitting there rigid like a corpse? Is that chivalrous, to discomfit a lady in that way? Be honest, don’t I have any effect on you? Yes or
no!”
    And on the word
no
she pushed her own foot into his crotch. When she felt the heated hardness, an uncontrollable shivering took hold of her. She seized his hand, pushed it down the front of her blouse, and pulled herself toward him. He uttered a murmur of protest as his hand became trapped in her clothes, then there was a tearing sound and their position became more comfortable.
    “Oh, Nyneve,” he said.
    “There’s this as well,” she said. “Life isn’t all worrying about one’s destiny.” And she sighed with happiness as she found he hadn’t left all his instincts behind on his old happentrack.
    When morning came, his arms were still around her and she awakenedslowly, deeply content. The rain had stopped and the tent glowed with sunlight. She disengaged herself gently, dressed, and made her way to a secluded stream where she bathed. The ice-cold water had never felt so good. When she arrived back at the tent, Arthur was dressed and chatting to a knot of villagers. He, too, seemed to have been rejuvenated by the night’s events. When he saw her, he smiled, and made a point of drawing her into the group.
    “The Baron’s holding a tournament today,” he told her, “but nobody from Mara Zion is taking part.”
    “With Tristan dead, there’s not much point,” Torre