love!” cried Agilulf with such a brusque change of tone that Priscilla was alarmed. Then, without a break, he plunged into a dissertation of the passion of love. Priscilla was tenderly excited. Leaning on his arm, she urged him towards a room dominated by a big four-poster bed.
“Among the ancients, as love was considered a god...” Agilulf was pouring out.
Priscilla closed the door with a double bolt, went up to him, bowed her head on his armor and said, “I’m a little cold, the fire is spent...”
“The opinion of the ancients,” said Agilulf, “as to whether it be better to make love in cold rooms rather than in hot is a controversial one. But the advice of most...”
“Oh, you do know all about love,” whispered Priscilla.
“The advice of most is against stiflingly hot rooms and in favor of a certain natural warmth.”
“Shall I call my maidens, to light the fire?”
“I will light it myself.” He examined the wood in the fireplace, praised the flame of this or that type of wood, enumerated the various ways of lighting fires in the open or in enclosed places. A sigh from Priscilla interrupted him. As if realizing that this new subject was dispersing the amorous atmosphere being created, Agilulf quickly began smattering his speech with references and allusions and comparisons to warmth of emotions and senses.
Priscilla, smiling now, with half-closed eyes, stretching out a hand towards the flames which were beginning to crackle, said, “How lovely and warm ... how sweet it would be to be warm between sheets, prone...”
The mention of bed suggested a series of new observations to Agilulf; according to him the difficult art of bed making was unknown to the serving maids of France, and in nobles’ palaces could be found only ill-stretched sheets.
“Oh no, do tell me, my bed too ...?” asked the widow.
“Certainly yours is a queen’s bed, superior to all others in the Imperial dominions, but my desire to see you surrounded only with things worthy of you in every detail makes me eye that fold there with some apprehension...”
“Oh, a fold!” cried Priscilla, also swept by the passion for perfection communicated to her by Agilulf.
They undid the bed, finding and deploring little folds and puckers, portions too stretched or too loose, and this search gave moments of stabbing anguish and others of ascent to ever higher skies.
Having upset the whole bed as far as the mattress, Agilulf began to remake it according to the rules. This was an elaborate operation. Nothing was to be left to chance, and secret expedients were put to work. All this with diffuse explanations to the widow. But every now and again something left him dissatisfied, and he would begin all over again.
From the other wings of the castle rang a cry, or rather a moan or bray, forced out unwillingly.
“What's that?” started Priscilla.
“Nothing, it’s my squire’s voice,” said he.
With that shout mingled others more acute, like strident sighs soaring to the sky.
“What’s that now?” asked Agilulf.
"Oh, just the girls,” said Priscilla. ‘Playing ... youth, you know.”
And they went on remaking the bed, listening every now and again to the sounds of the night.
“Gurduloo’s shouting ...”
“What a noise those girls do make ...”
“The nightingale.”
“The cicadas...”
The bed was now ready, puckerless. Agilulf turned towards the widow. She was naked. Her robes had fallen chastely to the floor.
“Naked ladies are advised,” declared Agilulf, “that the most sublime of sensual emotions is embracing a warrior in full armor.”
“You don’t need to teach me that!” exclaimed Priscilla. “I wasn’t born yesterday!” So saying, she took a leap and clamped herself to Agilulf, entwining her legs and arms around his armor.
One after the other she tried all the ways in which armor can be embraced, then, all langor, entered the bed.
Agilulf knelt down beside her pillow. “Your hair,” he
“Among the ancients, as love was considered a god...” Agilulf was pouring out.
Priscilla closed the door with a double bolt, went up to him, bowed her head on his armor and said, “I’m a little cold, the fire is spent...”
“The opinion of the ancients,” said Agilulf, “as to whether it be better to make love in cold rooms rather than in hot is a controversial one. But the advice of most...”
“Oh, you do know all about love,” whispered Priscilla.
“The advice of most is against stiflingly hot rooms and in favor of a certain natural warmth.”
“Shall I call my maidens, to light the fire?”
“I will light it myself.” He examined the wood in the fireplace, praised the flame of this or that type of wood, enumerated the various ways of lighting fires in the open or in enclosed places. A sigh from Priscilla interrupted him. As if realizing that this new subject was dispersing the amorous atmosphere being created, Agilulf quickly began smattering his speech with references and allusions and comparisons to warmth of emotions and senses.
Priscilla, smiling now, with half-closed eyes, stretching out a hand towards the flames which were beginning to crackle, said, “How lovely and warm ... how sweet it would be to be warm between sheets, prone...”
The mention of bed suggested a series of new observations to Agilulf; according to him the difficult art of bed making was unknown to the serving maids of France, and in nobles’ palaces could be found only ill-stretched sheets.
“Oh no, do tell me, my bed too ...?” asked the widow.
“Certainly yours is a queen’s bed, superior to all others in the Imperial dominions, but my desire to see you surrounded only with things worthy of you in every detail makes me eye that fold there with some apprehension...”
“Oh, a fold!” cried Priscilla, also swept by the passion for perfection communicated to her by Agilulf.
They undid the bed, finding and deploring little folds and puckers, portions too stretched or too loose, and this search gave moments of stabbing anguish and others of ascent to ever higher skies.
Having upset the whole bed as far as the mattress, Agilulf began to remake it according to the rules. This was an elaborate operation. Nothing was to be left to chance, and secret expedients were put to work. All this with diffuse explanations to the widow. But every now and again something left him dissatisfied, and he would begin all over again.
From the other wings of the castle rang a cry, or rather a moan or bray, forced out unwillingly.
“What's that?” started Priscilla.
“Nothing, it’s my squire’s voice,” said he.
With that shout mingled others more acute, like strident sighs soaring to the sky.
“What’s that now?” asked Agilulf.
"Oh, just the girls,” said Priscilla. ‘Playing ... youth, you know.”
And they went on remaking the bed, listening every now and again to the sounds of the night.
“Gurduloo’s shouting ...”
“What a noise those girls do make ...”
“The nightingale.”
“The cicadas...”
The bed was now ready, puckerless. Agilulf turned towards the widow. She was naked. Her robes had fallen chastely to the floor.
“Naked ladies are advised,” declared Agilulf, “that the most sublime of sensual emotions is embracing a warrior in full armor.”
“You don’t need to teach me that!” exclaimed Priscilla. “I wasn’t born yesterday!” So saying, she took a leap and clamped herself to Agilulf, entwining her legs and arms around his armor.
One after the other she tried all the ways in which armor can be embraced, then, all langor, entered the bed.
Agilulf knelt down beside her pillow. “Your hair,” he
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