King's Blood by Judith Tarr Page B

sudden wind had caught the shade and scattered it, turning it to mist and starlight.
    Robin was standing in the doorway, wreathed in light and warmth. William reached for him with a hunger beyond words.
    Somewhat to his surprise, Robin let him. He was taller than William but lighter built, supple and strong, steel blade to William’s sturdy war-axe. After the cold breath of the dead, his living warmth was bliss.
    William was not thinking at all. He had forgotten cold, fear, even anger. All that was here was a deep kiss that tasted of wine, and strong arms clasping him, and eagerness at least the match of his.
    They slid together down the wall, unmindful of cold air or rough stone or half-frozen earth. Ghosts and spirits fluttered like moths toward the heat that radiated from them. Robin was like a hearthfire, a blaze of pure magic.
    This kind of magic, William could stomach—oh, easily. It had some use and purpose. There was a spell on him, he knew perfectly well. It asked nothing of him but this hour in this place. What happened before did not matter. What happened after was in the lap of the gods.
    Maybe Robin set out to take William by storm. William knew, none better, how to turn a battle to his own advantage. It was a fair fight, and a fair victory, too—on both sides.
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When they rode out in the morning, William had forgotten the apparition and its warnings. He only remembered what had come of it. He made no effort to hide the grin that kept breaking out, though he was careful not to aim it too obviously at Robin.
    They all knew. It would have been impossible not to, in those close quarters. But there was a courtesy among William’s familiars, an honor of silence. Just as old lovers learned not to play at jealousy with new ones, they all knew better than to draw attention to any particular alliance.
    There was a peculiar pleasure in circumspection, even out here in the wild. By evening they would be in Carlisle, in court where subtlety was an art and discretion a necessity.
    William caught himself anticipating it with pleasure. Tonight there would be a warm bed under a roof, and a whole night to continue what they had begun on the old Roman paving under the stars.
    Very far down in the depths of his memory, apprehension hovered. He took no notice of it. He had had a bad dream, that was all. Robin had roused him from it, and in more ways than one.
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“This is a dangerous game.”
    Robin lifted his head from the king’s breast. William was deep asleep. The fire had died; the room was cold. Robin drew the coverlet up over his bare shoulders.
    Even good English wool was poor defense against the breath of the dead. He looked up into Lanfranc’s shadowy face. “No more dangerous than yours,” he said, “my lord.”
    The late archbishop sat on a stool beside the royal bed. He still moved like the stiff old man he had been before he died, as if he could not bring himself to lose the habit. “This heedlessness has gone on long enough. Why do you encourage it?”
    William stirred and murmured. Robin slipped out of bed, reaching for the nearest covering, which was the king’s great cloak of crimson wool lined with vair. The touch of it on naked skin was cold, but it warmed quickly. He laid a Word on the king, which deepened his sleep, and stood over the shade on its stool. “Surely, my lord, you noticed while you were alive that this man takes very poorly to compulsion. Preach him a sermon and you will most certainly lose him. Whereas subtlety—”
    â€œSeduction is subtle?”
    Robin flushed. “That . . . simply happened. I wanted him to forget his anger at your preaching. It wasn’t supposed to—”
    â€œWas it not?”
    â€œNo,” said Robin, biting off the word.
    â€œFor six years,” said Lanfranc, “you kept your distance. You watched him dally with every pretty fool between Scotland and Provence. You maintained a