I will understand if you change—I mean, it's not fair. I've landed on you this night like a fowler's net on a bird. You must have a free choice, a chance to make up your own mind. See me in daylight and then if you still wish—"
Contending thoughts almost silenced him. Gird eyed her. "Is it that you think you can get nothing better than the coward of the count's own village? Was I just a last chance for you, is that what you're saying?"
She sat bolt upright. For an instant he thought she was going to hit him again; the place she'd slugged him before still ached. "You fool! If you don't want me, just say so. Don't make it my fault."
"I didn't—"
"You did." She was breathing fast, angry, and he waited. Finally she went on. "I was curious. I'd heard—what I told you. For myself, barring I like a roll as well as anyone, I'd live alone rather than marry anyone's last chance. Then meeting you—Amis said you were gentle, but he didn't say how you sang." Her voice trailed away. "And you're no coward, whatever you think."
"You don't think a man knows himself best?"
Laughter burst out of her again. "Who could? Can water know it's wet, or stone know it's hard? What could it measure itself against? I know my feelings, but my grandmother knew I was meant for herblore, not needlecraft or weaving. So with you—did your father or mother think you would make a soldier?"
Surprise again. "I—don't know. Not really, I suppose, although they feared I could be—"
"Cruel?" He could see her head shake in the starlight. "No, not like that. You can do what you must, but you take no pleasure in giving pain." He was eased by that, and his suspicions fled. A strange girl, like no girl he'd known (but what girls had he known?) but not a cunning one. If she said she liked him, then she did. Gird cleared his throat.
"I would like to—" Lady's grace; he didn't even know how to ask. But Mali had moved nearer to him again, her shoulder against his, her fragrant hair once more against his face.
"You should wait until sunrise," she said. "You might change your mind."
Gird laughed. "Sunrise," he said, "is too far away. Or do you want to go back and find witnesses to make it formal?"
"I want no witnesses," she said, in a low voice that was almost a growl. "Not for this." She folded her shawl, and lay back upon it, arms wide. "I swear by the Lady, that for this night I am content."
And content were they both by sunrise. Gird had thought he knew how it went between men and women; it was no secret after all, and any child saw it often enough growing up. But Mali's body, sweet-scented and warm on the cool hillside grass, was nothing like his imaginings—or far more. He could not get enough of touching her smooth skin, her many complex curves all ending in another place to enjoy with tongue and nose and fingers. And she, by all evidence, enjoyed it all as much as he did. They had fallen asleep at last, to be wakened by the loud uneven singing of Gird's friends on their way home. Mali chuckled.
"They want to let you know it's time to go, but without interrupting. You know, Gird, they are your friends. You must forgive them someday."
Right then he would have forgiven anyone anything, or so he felt, A pale streak marked distant sunrise. With a groan, he pulled his clothes together. "I don't want to leave."
Mali was already standing, shaking out her shawl. "If you wish, you know where."
"You know I want to marry you."
"I do not k now. I know you enjoyed my body, and I enjoyed yours, but there's more to marriage than that. But I like you, Gird. I say that now, after hearing you sing, laugh, and cry—more than many girls do, before they wed. Look on my face in daylight, and decide." She turned away to start home. Gird caught her arm.
"Why not now?"
"What of your work today? What of your family? Go home, lo—Gird. Go home and think whether you want a big, clumsy, loud-voiced wife with a scarred face. If you do, come see me in daylight. Ask me
Contending thoughts almost silenced him. Gird eyed her. "Is it that you think you can get nothing better than the coward of the count's own village? Was I just a last chance for you, is that what you're saying?"
She sat bolt upright. For an instant he thought she was going to hit him again; the place she'd slugged him before still ached. "You fool! If you don't want me, just say so. Don't make it my fault."
"I didn't—"
"You did." She was breathing fast, angry, and he waited. Finally she went on. "I was curious. I'd heard—what I told you. For myself, barring I like a roll as well as anyone, I'd live alone rather than marry anyone's last chance. Then meeting you—Amis said you were gentle, but he didn't say how you sang." Her voice trailed away. "And you're no coward, whatever you think."
"You don't think a man knows himself best?"
Laughter burst out of her again. "Who could? Can water know it's wet, or stone know it's hard? What could it measure itself against? I know my feelings, but my grandmother knew I was meant for herblore, not needlecraft or weaving. So with you—did your father or mother think you would make a soldier?"
Surprise again. "I—don't know. Not really, I suppose, although they feared I could be—"
"Cruel?" He could see her head shake in the starlight. "No, not like that. You can do what you must, but you take no pleasure in giving pain." He was eased by that, and his suspicions fled. A strange girl, like no girl he'd known (but what girls had he known?) but not a cunning one. If she said she liked him, then she did. Gird cleared his throat.
"I would like to—" Lady's grace; he didn't even know how to ask. But Mali had moved nearer to him again, her shoulder against his, her fragrant hair once more against his face.
"You should wait until sunrise," she said. "You might change your mind."
Gird laughed. "Sunrise," he said, "is too far away. Or do you want to go back and find witnesses to make it formal?"
"I want no witnesses," she said, in a low voice that was almost a growl. "Not for this." She folded her shawl, and lay back upon it, arms wide. "I swear by the Lady, that for this night I am content."
And content were they both by sunrise. Gird had thought he knew how it went between men and women; it was no secret after all, and any child saw it often enough growing up. But Mali's body, sweet-scented and warm on the cool hillside grass, was nothing like his imaginings—or far more. He could not get enough of touching her smooth skin, her many complex curves all ending in another place to enjoy with tongue and nose and fingers. And she, by all evidence, enjoyed it all as much as he did. They had fallen asleep at last, to be wakened by the loud uneven singing of Gird's friends on their way home. Mali chuckled.
"They want to let you know it's time to go, but without interrupting. You know, Gird, they are your friends. You must forgive them someday."
Right then he would have forgiven anyone anything, or so he felt, A pale streak marked distant sunrise. With a groan, he pulled his clothes together. "I don't want to leave."
Mali was already standing, shaking out her shawl. "If you wish, you know where."
"You know I want to marry you."
"I do not k now. I know you enjoyed my body, and I enjoyed yours, but there's more to marriage than that. But I like you, Gird. I say that now, after hearing you sing, laugh, and cry—more than many girls do, before they wed. Look on my face in daylight, and decide." She turned away to start home. Gird caught her arm.
"Why not now?"
"What of your work today? What of your family? Go home, lo—Gird. Go home and think whether you want a big, clumsy, loud-voiced wife with a scarred face. If you do, come see me in daylight. Ask me
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