Her passion made the kiss sweeter than sweet, the sordidness of our surroundings irrelevant.
When we parted, breathless, her eyes were dancing. “I suppose it would only be polite to permit you the opportunity,” she whispered wickedly.
I gave her no chance to reconsider. I swung her into my arms and made for my humble room, knowing there would be little sleep for either of us this night.
I did not care. I was not so distracted that I forgot to sling saddlebag over my shoulder, but its contents were hardly at the fore of my thoughts.
The demoiselle ensured as much, for she kissed me with fervor even before we left the common room. She had my chausses loose and her legs locked around my waist by the time I reached the summit of the stairs.
I lunged across the threshold of my chamber, distracted as I seldom am. I placed her upon the pallet, then locked the door and stowed the bag. I turned to find her nude upon my shabby pallet, her dark cloak pooled beneath her creamy curves. Her welcoming smile was all she wore and all the enticement any man could need.
When she reached for me, I could do nothing but to surrender to the magic she wrought.
I am only human, no matter what is said of me, after all.
What a night! There was something about this woman, a mingling of ardor and innocence that snared me in her amorous spell. Every kiss she savored as if it was both her first and her last. She embraced my every suggestion like a virgin greedy for knowledge, but responded to my every touch like a whore who knew how to prolong each pleasure. It seemed she anticipated me, as I did her, as if we had loved a thousand times before.
Yet this was no mating burdened by habit or ennui. There was a spark of discovery along with the ease, and I could not fathom the combination.
Save that I could not have enough of it, or of her. We moved together so well and so effortlessly that I was half-persuaded that she had been wrought for me alone. I do not recall how many times we mated that night, I recall only that each time was more splendid than the last, and each release made me yearn for another.
I dozed when it was impossible to continue, but came fully awake in the midst of the night when my passionate companion stirred. I am inclined to sleep like a cat, even when alone, for mine is a life that requires one to be vigilant. I schooled my breath, as I am wont to do, letting her believe that I yet slept.
She rose from the hard straw pallet, and my flesh chilled where she had nestled against me. I listened to her soft footfalls as she crossed the dark chamber. I parted my eyelids slightly, and watched her pale silhouette. She paused before my saddlebag and I stiffened, well prepared to leap to the defense of its precious contents.
But she did not touch my belongings. Instead, she reached up and unlatched the shutters. She flung them open, then leaned her hands upon the sill to regard the sleeping town. It still rained, though the sky had turned to such a hue of pewter that it was brighter outside than inside, despite the hour.
She stood there nude, her hair cascading to her hips, and when she turned slightly, I saw her smile. There was satisfaction in that smile, as well as a measure of pride. She looked like a woman sated, which made me smile in turn, and I was reassured at her intentions.
“You are pleased,” I said softly.
She pivoted in alarm at the sound of my voice, then laughed as she leaned back against the lip of the window again. I liked that she did not hasten to cover herself or feign shyness after all we had done. “I did not know you were awake.”
“How could I not awaken, with the night’s chill spilling through the window?” I patted the pallet and shivered elaborately. “Come back to bed that we can force the cold from our bones.”
She laughed again, genuinely amused by my words. “But it is not cold on this night! I can smell spring in the wind.”
“In December? I think not. Spring may never touch this savage land again, for all that is in the wind.”
She laughed again, then strode across the room, perching on the side of the pallet. “And where are you from, my lord, that your blood is so thin as this?”
“From the south,” I said with characteristic evasiveness.
“The south of where?”
“England, of course.”
She laughed again, though this laughter was knowing. “You are not of these isles. I can hear as much in your voice. Tell me, from whence did you come? Where is it so much warmer than here?”
I reasoned that it mattered little whether I told part of my tale to a pretty whore. I sat up and donned my chemise beneath her amused gaze. “From Sicily. It is an isle in the Mediterranean.”
“Where the Normans ruled in times past and now lawlessness ensues,” she said, surprising me with her knowledge. “Where Frederick II, the Holy Roman Emperor and marvel of the world, did reign so nobly.”
“How could you know such a detail?”
She smiled coyly though I fancied that her cheeks pinkened, as if she had said more than she intended. “I knew a man who had an interest in the emperor’s writings.”
I said nothing, for I knew little of that man’s treatises save for one composed upon the art of falconry. Such a sport of kings could not be of interest to any soul in this remote place, certainly not to a common whore. Of this I was certain, and I had no desire to either challenge her certainty or insult her.
She took my silence for astonishment, which it was in part, and tapped my nose with a chiding fingertip. “We whores are not so stupid as that, even in these cold, cold lands.”
I was startled that she mocked me, even though she did so gently and with charm. That spark of intellect I had glimpsed in her eyes earlier was there again, shining as if in challenge. There was devilry in her smile, devilry that should have given me pause, if I had not been distracted by the perfection of her breasts. I raised a hand to cup one and she arched her back, casting her hair over her shoulders.
“You do not know who a whore like me might have welcomed between her thighs. Perhaps the king himself has visited me and told me of his travels.”
A chill passed through me then, and my hand fell away from her flesh. How much did she know of me? In hindsight, I know that she noted my response, for she moved quickly to set me at ease again.
And this she accomplished by the simplest means. She wrapped her arms around my neck and eased onto my lap, caught my face in her hands and kissed me as if her very soul depended upon it. I could not think, let alone be suspicious, with my arms full of this tempting wench—though later I would curse the fact that she had known precisely how to distract me.
“Tell me of this Sicily,” she demanded when her lips left mine. Her hair fell around me, her buttocks were in my hands, and her smile rivaled the radiance of the sun.
“Why? Do clever whores not know all about its charms?”
She laughed, then her expression turned coy. “Because I am curious. Because I would know why you favor a place that others curse.” She kissed my ear with such beguiling expertise that my eyes closed. “Because I cannot imagine a place warmer than this one.”
Three good reasons they were, and reassuringly feminine reasons as well. I sighed and considered where to begin. “First, you should know that any lawlessness is not so fearful as men here would have you believe.”
“Then, there is a ruling king?”
“One in Spain, which suits all in Sicily well enough.” I smiled wickedly and she laughed, chiding me with a fingertip.
“You are not fond of having the eye of justice upon you. Is it possible that your coin is gained by nefarious means?”
“Sicily suits me.” I merely winked and smiled when she might have asked for greater detail, then guided her gaze to the window with a sweeping gesture. “Imagine that we sit upon the top floor of a house, with solely the stars of the night above us as canopy.”
“Your home?”
I ignored her query. “Imagine that the air is warm but not hot, that the breeze is pleasant. Close your eyes and you can smell jasmine flo
wers in bloom…”
“Jasmine?”
“A flower which emits a perfume beyond sweetness.” She seemed skeptical of this detail, but I resumed my tale. “Imagine that the vista before your eyes is not the muddy gray of York, but the splendid Mediterranean sea—it is as blue as turquoise in the daylight and as the midnight sky at night. Before you is spread the entire town, for we are outside the city walls. There is the palace, surrounded by a lake which gleams in the moonlight and surrounded by orange trees…”
“Orange trees? Trees are green, as every fool knows!”
“No, no, trees bearing the fruit called orange.” She arched a dark brow at this, her doubts clear. “It is a small bitter fruit, red-orange when ripe, green when not. These blossoms too are redolent with sweetness. The leaves, which are indeed green, are dark and glossy, as if polished to a shine.”
“This sounds most fanciful.”
“A veritable paradise upon earth. These trees were first planted by the Saracens, along with those of lemons and limes, both tart small fruits, one yellow and one green. The entire town is wrought of fine stone houses, with verdant gardens surrounding them. Here, on our loggia, we cannot see the distant isles called the Aeolian isles, but we know they are there.”
“How?”
“There are nine of them, two in perpetual fire. Although smoke rises from them during the day, at night you can discern solely red flames licking at the night sky from further down the coast. We can see the plume of smoke and know its import.”
“This loggia sounds to be at the very gates of hell.”
“No, no. The mountains are filled with fire there, though they seldom spill their lava and never into the town of Palermo.”
“How reassuring.” Her tone was wry, but she was intrigued.
“Our loggia is paved with interlocking stone, in a pattern wrought of red and green and gold. The walls are covered with glazed tiles of yellow and blue, and if you peer over the edge, you will spy a fountain on the ground floor. Fresh water runs from the aqueduct wrought by the Romans into the main room, then is channeled to a pond. The pond is filled with great golden fish and lilies grow around its perimeter.”
“Water flows in the house itself?”
“Its coolness, and that of the stone, mitigates the day’s heat. And the sound of it soothes the spirit.”
“It would freeze in winter.”
“There is no winter in Sicily, at least not as you know here.”
“How hot is it there?”
“The sun shines most fiercely and there is a hot, dry wind from the south in summer which makes matters hotter.”
She ran a fingertip along my jaw and down to my tanned chest. “Which is why your flesh is of such a hue.” She followed her fingertip with a teasing line kisses, but before I could return her embrace, she ruffled my hair. “Do all people there have hair as golden as the sun?”
“No. In fact, most have hair the hue of your own, though their eyes are dark.”
“Then how did you come to abide there?”
I ignored this inquiry as well. “Close your eyes and imagine the sound of the night in Sicily, the hum of night insects, the distant ripple of laughter.”
“You know this palace well.”
“I intend to make it my own, for it is lush and elegant, a respite from the woes of the world.” I slid down the pallet with her weight atop me. “Close your eyes and imagine. Smell the jasmine and the greenery, feel the heat of the air upon your flesh, hear the play of the water in the fountain. Look, there is red wine and fine cheese, fruits to tempt any palate. Choose a pomegranate…”
“A pomegranate?” She braced her elbow upon my chest, her expression skeptical.
“A most uncommon fruit, both sweet and sour, and so delicious as to be sinful.”
She shook her head then, as if impatient with me. “There can be no such fruit, as there can be no such paradise as this Sicily. You lie!”
“I do not!”
She laughed and swatted my shoulder playfully. “I do not believe this Sicily of yours exists. I think you concoct a tale for my amusement.” Her eyes narrowed. “Or perhaps for your own, that you might measure the gullibility of a simple whore.”
The heat between us suddenly chilled.
“No! Sicily is precisely as I tell you.”
She was unpersuaded. Indeed, she rolled away from me, convinced that I made a jest at her expense. I was not yet prepared to see this demoiselle leave my bed, however, so I leaped to my feet.
I recalled that I yet had two pomegranates in my saddlebag, so loath had I been to eat the last of those I had brought. I rummaged in the bag, refastened it so that she might not spy its contents, and then turned to confront her proudly with the fruit. “A pomegranate.”
She lounged in the pallet, her weight braced on one elbow, her expression inscrutable. “A painted ball.”
I sat on the side of the bed and took my knife to the rind. The distinctively sweet scent of the fruit had her sitting up behind me. I smiled, noting her curiosity, then let her examine it.
“It smells sweet, yet tart.” She turned the red fruit in her hands, her curiosity clear, then removed one of the glistening beads and rolled it between her fingers. A pomegranate, as you know, is filled with such beads, each containing a juicy red pulp and a seed. She marveled at it, then slanted a considering glance to me. “You did not lie.”
“Of course not. This one has lingered long in my saddlebag, so is not at its prime. They are larger and more filled with juice when freshly plucked. See how the flesh has dried and tightened.”
“And these can be eaten?”
I loosed the beads, then offered her several upon the blade of my knife. Her uncertain gaze flicked from it to me, then to the bead she yet held between finger and thumb. I took several and ate them myself under her scrutiny, then spat out the seeds.
“Your lips are stained, as with carmine,” she said with a merry laugh.
“Every pleasure has its price.” I winked and she smiled, then shook her head.
“There is a truth that cannot be denied.” There was a sadness in her eyes at that moment, but I caught only a glimpse of it before she popped the bead of pomegranate into her mouth. Her eyes widened when it evidently burst in her mouth, then she gasped with pleasure at the taste of the fruit. She spat the seed into her hand with all the grace of a noblewoman, then her tongue made quick work of the juice upon her lips.
“It is delicious!” Her eyes lit and she reached for more.
But I held the fruit beyond her grasp, knowing my own smile was wicked. “And what,” I mused, “would you be prepared to do for more?”
She chuckled, her eyes dancing with mischief. She feigned submissiveness in a way that prompted my own laughter. “Anything, my lord. Anything at all.”
Which was precisely what I had hoped she would say. That fruit, I assure you, was well savored and the linens were as sticky with its juice as we were.
Indeed, I had never tasted a sweeter pomegranate in all my days and nights.
II
I never sleep in the company of a whore. It is folly to do so, for it is their trade and their inclination to see themselves better compensated than any man might feel was warranted. But I slept that night and that was my first error.
Or perhaps it was the second, after the taking of this alluring whore to my bed.
Either way, the bells were pealing from York’s cathedral, summoning the faithful to prayer, when I awakened in a far finer mood than should have been possible in such a locale. It was raining and the shutters hung open, the better to admit fully the damp onslaught of morning. I smiled all the same as I stretched a hand across the mended linens.
I found nothing.
Or rather, no one. The cause of my fine mood had fled. I frowned, disappointed, though it is usually easier to avoid the faltering conversation of the morning after such a night as we had shared. I would, though, have liked to look upon her beauty in what passed for daylig
ht in this country.
But then, maybe it was better to have the perception than the truth. Perhaps she had not been as fine as I had believed. Perhaps the ale had been more potent than expected. Certainly, my head ached.
I rolled over, discontent, and then realized I had never asked her price.
Worry had me on my feet in a heartbeat and checking my belongings. Amazingly, my purse not only remained, but was as fat as it had been the night before. I smiled as I jingled its weight, delighted that she had been so uncommonly pleased by my caress as to forgo her fee.
It had been a fine night. That we shared the sentiment was enough to put a whistle upon a man’ lips. I dressed in haste, anxious to be upon my way. I had retrieved the relic, the Titulus Croce, which was owed to me, and had spent an unexpectedly delightful evening. It was time for a repose in sunbaked Sicily, red wine upon my lips, soft whores in my lap and sweet fruit upon my tongue.
That thought only made me yearn anew for my lusty partner of the night before. How sweet the pomegranate juice had been when laved from her nipples! It was unfortunate, truly, that she had fled so quickly. I could have offered to show her that Sicily existed in truth.
But what was done was done. No doubt, her allure would have faded with time. I pulled on my boots and flung my cloak over my shoulder, shivering despite its thickness. I would never leave the south again, I vowed, then bent to heft my saddlebag.
It was not as I had left it. My heart lunged for my throat, even as I guessed what I would find. I flung open the flap, a curse crossing my lips at the void within the bag. I ran my hands around the clean chemise there, dumped the few fripperies, dropped to my knees in the filthy herbs strewn across the floor and ran my hands under the bed.
Nothing. Nothing but dust and the waste of vermin.
The Titulus was gone.
So too was the last of my pomegranates.
The whore had had her price, after all.
I swore then, swore loudly and thoroughly as I seldom do, kicked the pallet that had been the site of her deceit, then cast myself out of the humble room. I had been beguiled and deceived and it was the fault of no one but my own cursed self.
All's Fair in Love and War: Four Enemies-to-Lovers Medieval Romances Page 36
