building their gun emplacement there. The last ragtag survivors of the assault force were still slinking homeward, tails between legs.
If they did not quickly return under a flag of truce to collect their dead and wounded, there would not be any wounded. Already the Gallant scavengers were out on the road, stripping armor and weapons, slitting throats and purses. Undoubtedly some Wends must have ridden the ladders over the cliff, down to the riverbank. There was a small patch of forest there, an inaccessible corner between the base of the cliffs and the river. Ancient stories told of other assailants ending down there and long-ago bishops consecrating it as a Christian graveyard.
The wind was making her shiver. Mother would notice her absence and raise a hue and cry. Still she lingered, wondering, hoping.… If she knew the names of Wulf’s Voices, she would pray to them to tell him that she was alone, so if he could spare a minute from important men’s work in this hazardous time.… But she didn’t know the names. Dreams, only dreams.
She turned to go and he was standing in the doorway, gazing at her.
They collided into each other’s arms in a rib-cracking embrace. Anton had taught her what a man expected from a kiss. Wulf did not know the details, but he proved to be a very fast learner. It was a wonderful, passionate, soul-consuming, never-ending kiss.
Yet nothing in the world lasts forever. They broke it off eventually and just hugged, chins on shoulders, cheek against stubbled cheek. She was as tall as Wulf was—too tall, really, but the right height for Anton. Nothing else was right about Anton.
“Oh, God!” he whispered. “I love you! I have never wanted anyone or anything as much as I want you.”
“Me the same.” If he asked her to go away with him, she would, and damn the consequences, terrible though those must be. But he knew that already, and for either of them to say so now would trigger disaster for both.
“Now I know why lust is such a popular sin.”
“Love, not lust! You think I kiss every man like that?”
Grunt.
“If your brother gave kisses like that, you think I’d be here with you?”
Wulf pulled back just enough to put them eye-to-eye, much too close to focus. “You mean you like my kissing better than Anton’s?”
“His are just slobber. Yours are heaven.”
“Lady, my experience of kisses can be counted on the thumbs of one hand.”
She gave him another one for practice. Not quite so intense, perhaps, but even better, more deliberate, even longer. When it was over—
“Don’t let go,” sh co,&er„ murmured. “I’ll fall down.”
“We must let go,” he whispered. “Nothing good can come of this.”
He was right. Nothing good, only pain. Wulf was always right. Her handfasting to Anton ranked the same as marriage in the eyes of the Church. Few people below the rank of kings were ever granted a divorce, and about the only excuse for that was consanguinity. Even if she could prove that she and Anton shared ancestors a few generations back, then Wulf must be just as closely related to her.
If they ran away to cohabit out of wedlock, they would be in a state of sin all their lives. Friends and families would spurn them. Their children would be scorned and despised as bastards. Their daughters would never make a decent marriage; their sons could not enter a craft guild or a profession. Nor could a man marry his brother’s widow. She must not even think about that possibility.
“You’re right,” she said. “Mother will be tearing the walls down. If she isn’t, my … your brother will be. I must go.”
He released her carefully and stepped back, holding her hands as if unable to break the contact completely. There were tears in those golden wolf eyes. Men never wept; it must be the wind.
“Angel lady,” he said, staring at her.
“Hero.” She smiled. “We have an illustrated Morte D’Arthur on the bookshelf. You look just like Lancelot. But
If they did not quickly return under a flag of truce to collect their dead and wounded, there would not be any wounded. Already the Gallant scavengers were out on the road, stripping armor and weapons, slitting throats and purses. Undoubtedly some Wends must have ridden the ladders over the cliff, down to the riverbank. There was a small patch of forest there, an inaccessible corner between the base of the cliffs and the river. Ancient stories told of other assailants ending down there and long-ago bishops consecrating it as a Christian graveyard.
The wind was making her shiver. Mother would notice her absence and raise a hue and cry. Still she lingered, wondering, hoping.… If she knew the names of Wulf’s Voices, she would pray to them to tell him that she was alone, so if he could spare a minute from important men’s work in this hazardous time.… But she didn’t know the names. Dreams, only dreams.
She turned to go and he was standing in the doorway, gazing at her.
They collided into each other’s arms in a rib-cracking embrace. Anton had taught her what a man expected from a kiss. Wulf did not know the details, but he proved to be a very fast learner. It was a wonderful, passionate, soul-consuming, never-ending kiss.
Yet nothing in the world lasts forever. They broke it off eventually and just hugged, chins on shoulders, cheek against stubbled cheek. She was as tall as Wulf was—too tall, really, but the right height for Anton. Nothing else was right about Anton.
“Oh, God!” he whispered. “I love you! I have never wanted anyone or anything as much as I want you.”
“Me the same.” If he asked her to go away with him, she would, and damn the consequences, terrible though those must be. But he knew that already, and for either of them to say so now would trigger disaster for both.
“Now I know why lust is such a popular sin.”
“Love, not lust! You think I kiss every man like that?”
Grunt.
“If your brother gave kisses like that, you think I’d be here with you?”
Wulf pulled back just enough to put them eye-to-eye, much too close to focus. “You mean you like my kissing better than Anton’s?”
“His are just slobber. Yours are heaven.”
“Lady, my experience of kisses can be counted on the thumbs of one hand.”
She gave him another one for practice. Not quite so intense, perhaps, but even better, more deliberate, even longer. When it was over—
“Don’t let go,” sh co,&er„ murmured. “I’ll fall down.”
“We must let go,” he whispered. “Nothing good can come of this.”
He was right. Nothing good, only pain. Wulf was always right. Her handfasting to Anton ranked the same as marriage in the eyes of the Church. Few people below the rank of kings were ever granted a divorce, and about the only excuse for that was consanguinity. Even if she could prove that she and Anton shared ancestors a few generations back, then Wulf must be just as closely related to her.
If they ran away to cohabit out of wedlock, they would be in a state of sin all their lives. Friends and families would spurn them. Their children would be scorned and despised as bastards. Their daughters would never make a decent marriage; their sons could not enter a craft guild or a profession. Nor could a man marry his brother’s widow. She must not even think about that possibility.
“You’re right,” she said. “Mother will be tearing the walls down. If she isn’t, my … your brother will be. I must go.”
He released her carefully and stepped back, holding her hands as if unable to break the contact completely. There were tears in those golden wolf eyes. Men never wept; it must be the wind.
“Angel lady,” he said, staring at her.
“Hero.” She smiled. “We have an illustrated Morte D’Arthur on the bookshelf. You look just like Lancelot. But
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