When he glanced across at her he saw that she was studying him intently. She quickly looked away. ‘Milord, there are some in the village — sour old women, mostly — who do not approve of your nightly visits with — to the taverns, I mean.’

‘Indeed?’

‘But by your words I see that you must find what pleasures you can, and I will speak against their harsh judgement, on your behalf. A life of sacrifice awaits you, milord.’

He laughed. ‘Then once again I am forgiven in your eyes?’

‘Please excuse my presumption, milord. A village is like a tree filled with birds all talking at once. All manner of things are said.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’

They approached the slope of the last hill before the settlement. Off to the right, forty or so paces from the road and at the end of a rutted track, was an old stone house that had been abandoned generations past, its roof long since collapsed. Osserc slowed his mount and eyed the climb of the road. ‘You may not believe this,’ he said, ‘but I value your forgiveness, Renarr. In my mind, these are my last days of freedom, and with the news I bring, that claim feels starker than ever before. But I tell you,’ and he looked across at her, ‘I do yearn for a tender touch that I have not paid for.’

She met his eyes, and then turned her mount on to the rutted track. The glance she cast back at him was veiled. ‘I think your father and the world can wait a while longer, milord?’

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

‘ When you want a woman to give freely of herself, Osserc, let her know that the privilege is yours, not hers. Be tender in your touch, and afterwards, make no boasts to anyone. There are many kinds of love. Some are small and brief, like a flower, while others last much longer. Value each one, for too few are the gifts of this world. Are you listening, boy? ’

‘ I am, Hunn Raal. I always listen to what you have to say… until you’re too drunk to say anything worth listening to.’

‘ But boy, I ain’t never that drunk.’

Halfway to the abandoned house, he saw her let the polished stone slip from her hand. It vanished in the yellowed grasses.

They hobbled the horses behind the house, out of sight from the road, and Osserc took Renarr’s hand and led her in through the gaping doorway. The grasses were thick on the floor, lumpy with wooden remnants from the rotted, fallen roof. He spent a short time clearing a space and then laid out his cloak.

She stood watching him as he stripped off his armour and then set aside his sword belt. He was not ashamed of his body, for it was lean and he bore the muscles of a fighter. When he had pulled off his sweat-stained linen shirt he looked over to see that she had slipped out from her tunic. She wore no undergarments, telling him that she had bathed in the stream; perhaps to wash away a night of lovemaking with her beloved, and perhaps she still felt his clumsy, rough hands upon her body, his desperate kisses.

He would sweep away such memories, and in so doing would cause her beloved to begin to pall in her eyes, and she would find herself longing for a more seasoned touch — for in the ways of lovemaking the whores had taught him all he needed to know.

She was not thin, yet wore her weight as if she belonged in it, and no life of idyll or tug of years pulled down upon her. The curves were round and he had a vision of her in the future, swollen with child yet pretty much the same as she was now.

Osserc wondered, as he drew her to him, if she made use of the herbs the whores employed to ensure that a man’s seed took no root. As far as he knew, he’d yet to sire a bastard, though it was known that some whores went away and did not return, suggesting that the herbs were not foolproof. He had no aversion on that count, though his father would be less than pleased. Still, Urusander knew of his son’s trips down to the taverns — no doubt Hunn Raal kept his lord informed, perhaps in detail.

She was tentative at first, until her desire awoke to his measured caress, and much as he wanted to throw her down on the cloak and rut like a boar, he held himself back.

‘ There’s an art to torturing women in bed, Osserc. You want to tease… like a lake’s waves rolling on to the shore, with each wave reaching farther, only to slide back and away. You offer the flood, you see? And keep offering it, but not giving it, not until she begs to be drowned — and you’ll know it by how she holds you, her clutching hands, her gasps. Only then do you take her.’

When at last he slid into her, she cried out.

He felt something give inside her and wondered what it was, and only when they were at last done, and he rolled away and saw the blood, did he comprehend. She knew nothing of herbs, and her beloved was a man kept at a distance, and what he longed for Osserc had just stolen. The poor fool was finished.