by Jack Whyte
In the course of the hour that followed, I received a humbling lesson in physical fitness and self-sufficiency, and came within reach of her no more than twice, each time only because she allowed me to. On the first of these, when I had paused again for breath, wondering where she had gone, she dropped onto my shoulders from a tree above me, her weight knocking me off my feet and down a grassy bank. Her arms hugged me tightly to her as we rolled together and my nostrils were filled with the warm scent of her, hair and sweat and wild blossoms, all mixed with the sharp tang of crushed grass and dry, pungent, crumbling earth. We came to rest at the bottom of the slope, me lying flat on my back with the wind knocked out of me, and she sitting astride my chest, grinning down at me, her smooth, firm, bare thigh beneath my hand. Before I could move to collect myself or utter a sound, she chuckled softly in her throat, ruffled my hair and was up and away again, and I realized that she had not even been breathing hard! A short time later, she dived from beneath a bush and wrapped her arms around my knees, bringing me crashing to the ground again, but this time she did not even pause to savour her victory or feast on my discomfiture before dashing away again.
At that point, in a last, desperate attempt to safeguard the few pitiful shreds of dignity I could muster, I abandoned the chase and began to retrace my steps, willing myself to runsmoothly back towards the valley and, within moments, it seemed, she was running easily by my side, her eyes fixed on the path ahead. Accepting the futility of any attempt to reason, or even communicate with her on my terms, I ran on without looking at her, but during the gentle journey back to the hut, I was conscious of the weariness and frustration and anger draining steadily from my body, so that I arrived at our journey's end rejuvenated and only pleasantly tired. She stopped by the edge of the lake and looked up at me, her eyes shining and her skin rosy and slick with perspiration. She turned aside and ran into the lake, struggling against the pull of the water at her knees until it was deep enough for her to throw herself full length and swim. I was mere moments behind her, and the water felt wonderful.
Later, when we had emerged shivering and run into the hut, she produced two blankets for us, then took my hands and pulled me to the wooden chair beside the fire, tugging and pushing at me until I sat down. Then she knelt, swathed in her blanket, and began poking and prodding at the fire, stirring up the flames until they blazed and adding dry, thick logs. That done, she lit a taper from the fire and used it to light three oil lamps, and all the while I was content to sit and shiver and watch her, drinking in her every movement, catching glimpses of the way the single, wet tunic she wore clung to the lines of her body beneath the blanket, and itching to take her around the waist and kiss her marvel of a mouth with its wide, full lips.
In the face of her now obvious delight in my presence, the only things that restrained me from laying hands on her were the warning of Daffyd and the memory of what had been done to her. Although her body was healed, those wounds were still too fresh in her mind. I contented myself with looking at her, wondering if the tumultuous feelings I was undergoing were merely unrequited lust, stirred and aggravated by the exercise she had put me through earlier, or the magic that I had heard men talk of as love. I had thought myself familiar with both, for I had lusted for years and had love for many people—mainly men, with Luceiia a notable exception. What I now felt in mind and body, however, bore little resemblance to my love for my great-aunt.
The heat from the fire soon dried us off, and as the dusk deepened outside, the combined light of the lamps and the fire grew stronger, casting dancing shadows on the walls of the hut. It was a simple, crude building in the light of day, but now, in this darkening evening, it took on a warmth and air of comfort that were soothing, almost magical.
As soon as the lamps were burning clearly, Cassandra laid aside the blanket that had covered her and went to move the pile of my outer clothes and armour from the table into a corner. It made an awkward burden, and I started to stand up to help her, but she saw the move and shook her head, frowning and waving her hand to make me stay where I was, so I relaxed again and continued watching her.
Once the table was clear, she went to a row of boxes on a shelf and produced bread, cheese, apples and wine, laying them out on the table before me. I felt saliva spurt under my tongue and realized I had eaten nothing since dawn. She herself ate little, but she watched me closely as I wolfed down my food, her eyes moving from my plate to my mouth with every bite I took. I offered to share my food with her, but she smiled and shook her head, content, apparently, to watch me eat. Eventually, I had had enough and pushed my plate away. She refilled my wine cup, then cleared away the remaining bread and cheese, returning it to the storage bins on the shelf. It was dark outside now. The firelight had faded again.
"Listen," I said, as a nightingale began to sing outside.
She paid no attention, either to my words or to the bird's song, and I was once again smitten with a stark reminder of all the beauty of the world that was lost to her. I had known that she was deaf, and had accepted it, but it had not struck me until that moment that she could never enjoy the song of a bird. I felt a great lump in my throat and my eyes blurred, and then she was standing before me, her eyes wide with alarm and concern at the sight of my tears. I shook my head violently and started to wipe them away with my wrist, but she stopped me and wiped my cheeks dry with her own soft fingertips. I could see the question in her face, Why are you weeping, Caius Merlyn?
I forced back the pain and tried to smile at her. It was not difficult. What I did find difficult, however, was to reconcile the difference I perceived between the boyish hoyden who had outrun and humiliated me that afternoon and the demure and gentle person who was now so evidently content to share her home and fire with me. She took me by the hand again and led me to the chair by the fire, and this time, when I was seated, she sat at my feet, holding the fingers of my right hand in her own and resting her cheek against the back of my hand as she stared into the fire. I could feel the softness of her face against my hand with every nerve end in my body, and I dared to move the tip of one finger minutely, entranced with the smoothness of her skin. Tiny though the movement was, she turned and smiled up at me, squeezing my hand and ending the freedom of that finger.
I have no idea how long we sat thus, silent and motionless, but eventually the heat of the fire made me drowsy and I startled both of us by awakening with a jerk as my neck muscles relaxed and allowed my head to drop forward. I blinked myself wide awake and with great reluctance rose to go, hating the. thought of leaving to ride back to Camulod alone.
She watched me intently as I rose, and crossed to the corner where my armour lay, and then she got up and came to me, holding out her hands to help me with my harness. I was in the act of strapping my armoured kirtle around my waist, and she took the buckle in one hand and the end of the strap in the other, frowning gently up at me. I grinned at her and sucked in my waist, and she pulled tight on both ends of the belt, but without making any effort to feed the end through the buckle. Instead, she shook her head, a questioning look on her face. I assumed that she was asking me if I had to go so soon, and I pantomimed tiredness and the need to sleep, pointing to the door and, by association, towards Camulod. In answer, she turned her head towards the pile of furs that was her bed, her hands still pulling the straps of my kirtle tight. But I knew that I could not sleep there. I wasn't that strong. I shook my head and smiled again, and she let go of the belted kirtle so that it fell at my feet. There was a determined look about her that surprised me. I watched her as she returned quickly to the fireplace and threw some fresh wood onto the embers. This done, she came back to where I stood, stooped to retrieve my belt and then straightened up to look directly at me. Deliberately, as though defying me to stop her, she threw the skirt of armoured straps back into the corner and took me firmly by both hands, drawing me, not altogether unwillingly, towards her bed, where she tugged at me until I sat down.
As soon as I was down, she pu
t one hand on my chest and pushed me back onto the furs and began to undo the thongs of my sandals. I relaxed and let her do it, enjoying myself immensely and fighting hard to keep the pleasure of looking at her and enjoying her ministrations separate from the sexual anticipation that was urging me to seize her and bear her down with me into the intimacy of the soft furs. The former was permissible; the latter was simply not.
Her head was bowed as she concentrated on untying the knot that held my left sandal in place and I propped myself up on my elbows, the better to enjoy the sight of her beauty in the leaping firelight; I decided that on my next journey I would bring her something richer and softer to wear than the plain cloth tunic she wore now. The knot came loose and she pulled the sandal off, leaving me free to wiggle my toes, and as I did so she laughed aloud. The sound shocked me, for it was the first time I had heard it, and I was astonished to realize that she laughed like any ordinary woman, in a gurgle of clear, liquid notes of great purity and beauty.
"Cassandra!" I said, but of course she paid no attention. I touched her on the head and she looked at me in inquiry, the laugh still radiant on her face. "You laughed!" She saw my lips move and tilted her head to one side like a puppy dog and again I was smitten with pain at the impossibility of communicating with her. The smile lingered on her face and I made myself smile back at her as I shook my head to indicate that it was not important. She reached for my hands again and tugged me to a kneeling position. I offered no resistance, allowing myself to be positioned as she wanted. When she had me kneeling upright, she made a strange gesture which had me completely at a loss. She read the incomprehension in my face and repeated the gesture, crossing her arms in front of her and drawing her hands up her sides, and I realized that she was telling me to remove my tunic. All at once I was overcome with embarrassment. I shook my head firmly. This time, her tiny headshake and slightly puzzled frown said Why not? as clearly as though she had spoken the words aloud. I could only shrug helplessly. Very deliberately, she tilted her head again, this time to the other side, and scanned my face intently, then she rose to her feet and slowly drew her own shift over her head, not taking her eyes from mine for a second in die process. I stared in wonder at her beauty. She had gained weight and lost all signs of her injuries since the time when I had gazed in horror at the damage that had been done to her. Then, her lacerated body had seemed thin and undernourished; now, it seemed as though I was looking at a different woman. Her breasts, though not large, were full and rounded, her belly smooth and flat and unblemished. She stood with her feet slightly apart and only a blind man would have been unaware of the thick profusion of hair between her firm, round thighs. I knew my mouth had fallen open, rapt as I was in the splendour of the sight before me. And then she stooped, quick as a wink, seized the top fur of the pile and was underneath it almost before I saw her move, pulling it up to her chin so that only her perfect face with its huge eyes and mouth remained exposed to my gaze, and still I did not move, though the blood was hammering in my ears.
Slowly, lying on her back, her gaze fixed on mine, she raised the covering in a plain request for me to join her. Eventually I moved to do so, reaching for the edge of the covering, but she dropped it immediately and shook her head and pointed her chin explicitly at my tunic. I removed it, feeling strange—not foolish, but unsure of myself, for I could hear Daffyd's exhortations against doing anything that might hurt her either physically or in her mind. I moved again to join her, now wearing nothing but my breech clout, and again she stopped me with an upraised palm and three distinct, pointing jabs of her finger. I nodded my understanding and rose to extinguish the lamps, after which I returned to find her holding up the covering to allow me to climb in beside her.
The furs smelled of wild lavender and roses and I wondered how she had managed to achieve that effect as I lowered myself cautiously to rest beside her. We had soft bedclothes at home in Camulod, but still used skins on campaign. My own campaign bed skins still smelled feral after years of use. I could see her face quite clearly in the flickering firelight, although my face must have been in shadow to her. As I came to rest facing her, lying on my left side, she moved slightly towards me and I felt the warmth of the soft underside of her thigh against my bent knee. I held my breath, not daring to believe that this was actually happening. I lay there unmoving, drinking in the beauty of her, my knee, our sole point of contact, feeling as though it was being burned with exquisite fire. We lay like that for long moments until my breathing steadied and my smile became less like a rictus, and then I felt her thigh withdraw from my knee and knew bitter disappointment until I realized what she was doing. She pulled herself up on her right elbow above me and undid the fastening of her hair with her left hand, allowing it to fall in a loose cascade across her face. The action exposed her breasts to my view from a distance of less than a handspan and I gazed at the tension of the firm skin and the pointed pinkness of her tiny nippies. She reached her free hand towards me and traced the outline of my cheek in a feather-like caress. I felt a lump of pure tenderness swell in my throat. Goose-flesh broke out all over my body as her fingertips dropped from my chin to my neck and moved down almost weightlessly to trace the length of my breastbone. She saw my hissed intake of breath and felt the involuntary stiffening of my whole body, for she smiled again and increased the pressure of her index finger by a hair's weight, continuing her movement until her fingertip rested gently in my navel. My stomach was as tight as a drum as her hand retraced its delicious journey until her palm and fingers gently cupped my right shoulder and pushed until I was lying flat on my back. I closed my eyes and felt a shudder pass through my body with the pressure of her breast against my chest and the soft, moist, unbelievable warmth of her glorious mouth covering my own, and I realized that all of the kisses I had ever experienced had been waiting for this.
I am an old man, now, recalling this night across the abyss of fifty years and more, but the memory of that kiss still stirs the hairs on my arms and causes nightingales to sing in my memory. In all of his writings, save for those in which he dealt with his friend Equus's sister Phoebe and with Scilla Titens and a few intimate recollections of his marriage, Publius Varrus kept his private thoughts of his women to himself, as did my grandfather Caius. My father spoke to me of love and lust on a few occasions, straightforwardly as a soldier will, but I, for my part, spoke to no man of love. I was regarded as a celibate, which indeed I became. But I have known a love that transformed my life and shaped the man I was to become, and I feel no constraint in writing of that love today. The awakening of it that night, when I was reborn into a world of brilliant colours and amazing textures, changed my life and reshaped the foundations of my manhood.
It was the most wondrous night of my whole life, and I passed through it as one would a wonderland of purest fantasy, willing the falling sands of time to float like thistledown in summer zephyrs and struggling mightily now and again, flaring in silent rebellion, each time an errant thought of Camulod and that other, lesser life teased at the edges of my consciousness to remind of me of things undone and duties unfulfilled. The hours stretched slowly, filled with wondrous, rippling darkness and unearthly joys the like of which I had never imagined.
I avoided the hour of reckoning—of wakening—as resolutely as I could. Eventually, however, I could procrastinate no longer. Camulod and my duties were waiting and I had to go to them. Cassandra helped me to dress and walked with me, her arm around my waist, to where my horse stood grazing. I felt a stab of guilt that I had left the poor beast there all night wearing his saddle. I tightened the girth and turned to bid my love farewell, but she was gone. I looked all around me, scanning the entire valley with my eyes. She was nowhere to be seen, yet I knew she was watching me, unwilling to display the tears that this leaving must bring.
I stepped up into the saddle and walked my horse away, back into the world of men and their cares and woes.
XV
The door of my father's office stood open an
d the sentry on duty there saluted smartly as I approached. I returned the salute and stepped into the doorway, rapping my knuckles lightly on the door post as I saw my father in his usual position at his table, his head bent over an unfinished report. He looked up under his brows and grunted at me.
"Ah! You're back, good. Have a seat. I'll be with you in a moment."
I took off my helmet and made myself comfortable, looking around at the Spartan austerity of this tiny cubicle where General Picus Britannicus spent so' much of his working life. The room measured less than four good paces long by the same in width and held nothing but my father's work table, two chairs, two wooden chests bound with iron, and his own stool. Along the back wall ran a double shelf that held some bound books, a pile of reports and some rolled maps. His swordbelt, helmet and cloak hung from wooden pegs in the wall beside the door, and a large leather bucket by his feet served as a receptacle for anything he did not want to keep lying around. I looked long at the battered table on which he was writing; it was as much a part of my father as anything else he owned. Long and narrow, it formed a partitioned box two handsbreadths deep and sat on two collapsible trestles that fitted into slots fashioned to hold them on the underside of the table. It could be locked with a spring-loaded tumbler lock, and it went with him everywhere he went, loaded upon the commissary wagon. On campaign, it held the same place in his tent that it held here within his office.
On the wall at his back, above the double shelves, hung a simple wooden cross, a gift from his old friend Bishop Alaric, and I wondered again, as I did each time I came here, at the strength of the faith of men that had turned this symbol of shame and degradation into a symbol of triumph and love.
