The Burning Stone

“There are two other things we need from you this night,” said Sanglant when he had finished his cup of ale. “A bed.” Some of the men-at-arms gulped down laughter—but he heard no ridicule, only sympathetic amusement. He recognized all of these men as soldiers who had followed his command at the battle outside Gent. “And your witness, Mistress Hilda, together with that of these men.”



They waited expectantly. Mistress Hilda made a gesture for her son to fill the cups again, and the rest of her household huddled among the shadows under the interior eaves to listen.



Liath had spoken no word since the first riders had caught up with them, but she stood now, hand trembling slightly as she took hold of the wooden cup. He stood hastily beside her, taut, like a hound held to a tight leash. “With these folk as my witness, I thee pledge—” She stumbled, tried again, this time looking at him, holding his gaze. “I freely state my intention before God and these witnesses to bind myself in marriage with this man, given by his mother the name of Sanglant.”



He did not stumble, but only because he simply repeated her words. “I freely state my intention before God and these witnesses to bind myself in marriage with this woman, given by her father the name of Liathano.”



“I so witness,” said Mistress Hilda in a carrying voice.



“I so witness,” mumbled the poor soldiers, who well knew they would be called to explain the whole thing once they had returned to court.



Then everyone drained their cups and there came one of those awkward pauses while everyone waited for someone else to make the first move.



Mistress Hilda acted first. She made such a great fuss about surrendering the use of her best bed that Sanglant would have laughed if he hadn’t been so damned nervous. No doubt once word spread that a king’s son had spent his wedding night there many a villager would offer a basket of their best fruit, a prize chicken, or several plump partridges for the privilege of letting their own sons or daughters spend their wedding night in that same bed in the hope that some portion of the king’s luck and fertility would rub off.



The bed, built under the low slanting roof, boasted a luxurious feather mattress and a good stout curtain that could be drawn closed around it. Mistress Hilda herself chased off the two whippets curled up at the foot of the mattress. While a daughter shook out the blankets outside, the householder made a valiant attempt to brush out fleas and bugs. Then she herded the soldiers down to the empty half of the longhouse where, during the winter, the family stabled their livestock.



One lantern still burned, and the longhouse doors, thrown open to admit the breeze, allowed a pearlescent gleam of moonlight to gild the darkest confines of the longhouse. Mistress Hilda made much of escorting them to the bed and drew the curtains shut behind them. With curtains drawn it was astoundingly black; he could not see at all. The air within was stuffy. Liath sat next to him. She did not move, nor did he. He was inordinately pleased with his self-control. He sat there, thinking that he ought to unwrap his sandals and leggings. Sweat prickled on his neck and a few beads of sweat trickled down his back. The bed still smelled of dog, and of the wool stored under the bed. Outside, where he had staked them, the Eika dogs barked, then settled down.



“Sanglant,” she whispered. She let out a sigh, and he almost lost himself. But he did not move. He was afraid to move.



But she moved. Her fingers touched his cheek, the old remembered gesture from the crypt in the cathedral of Gent, then wandered to his ear and finally down to his neck, where she traced the rough surface of the slave collar around to its clasp.



“I swore that I would never love any man but you.” Her voice was tense with amazement. Without asking permission, she found the cunning mechanism that clasped the collar closed. Without chains locking it closed, it was easy for her to undo it. That quickly, she eased it off, then hissed between her teeth as she gently touched the skin beneath. He hissed, too, in pain; it was very tender. She leaned forward to kiss him at the base of his throat, over the scar from the wound that had ruined his voice, taken four years ago—or was it five? Her lips burned as if with fire, but it was very hot within the curtains. Indeed, the only way to be at all comfortable was to take off his clothes—although in such a confined space, and with her fumbling at her own next to him in such a distracting manner, it was not an easy task.



She brushed him, naked now, her skin hot to the touch, and he most willingly lay down beside her although it took incredible strength of will not simply to have the matter done with in an instant—all the time it would no doubt take him—and be relieved however briefly of this horrible pressure of arousal.