His mood having vastly improved, Galen suddenly took an interest in the festivities; he even smiled warmly at Melisande as she approached the baldachin.
“How fare thee, Lady Melisande?” he said in greeting, gesturing for her to seat herself on the vacant stool to the right of him.
Attired in a rose-colored gown with tightly-fitted sleeves, laced on either side with gold cord, the blonde beauty appeared as fresh as a spring bloom. Having discarded her usual white wimple, Melisande seemed to Galen’s eyes, not as the widow she was, but as a “lady fair.”
Presenting him with a silver goblet, Melisande said in a sweet, dulcet-toned voice, “I have brought you some spiced wine, my lord.
About to inform her that he preferred to drink ale that evening—for the simple reason that it was Laoghaire’s favorite beverage—Galen thought better of his reply at the last. Not wanting to insult the lady, he accepted the goblet with a murmured word of thanks.
“Are you not hungry for food, my lord?”
Galen momentarily frowned, thinking her inquiry oddly phrased. Casting a disinterested glance at his empty plate, he mumbled, “Er, apparently not.”
“Perhaps you hunger for something else, then?”
Intuiting that they were discussing two entirely different matters, Galen cleared his throat before he abruptly said, “How fare thee, Lady Melisande?” Belatedly realizing that he’d already asked that question, he snatched hold of the wine goblet and raised it to his lips.
Melisande peered at him with what could only be called an adoring expression. “My thoughts are all for you, my lord.”
Upon hearing that, Galen somewhat guiltily stole a glance at the woman seated beside him. He was very much aware that, had it not been for the king’s decree, Melisande would now be seated to the other side of him, in the chair reserved for the countess of Angus.
Just then, the jongleur who was garbed in the gaudy yellow tunic approached the high table. Strumming a gittern, he began to sing a popular tune.
For I love you so much, truly,
that one could sooner dry up the deep sea
and hold back its waves
than I could restrain myself from loving you; for my thoughts,
my memories, my pleasures
and my desires are perpetually
of you, whom I cannot leave or even briefly forget.
“The song speaks of a particular type of love,” Melisande remarked. “’Tis not the love between husband and wife, but that shared by a knight and his lady.” Melisande looked Galen directly in the eyes. Within those green depths there was a seductive promise, one that he’d never before seen. “Indeed, I have heard it said that it is impossible for love to be shared between husband and wife.”
“Yea, I have heard the same,” Galen said in a circumspect tone of voice, wondering at her motive.
“That is because lovers give to each other freely. Whereas wedded spouses are duty-bound in regards to one another. Thus, true love can only be found outside the bounds of marriage.”
Confounded, Galen said, “I would have you speak plainly, lady. Why do you make mention of love?”
Smiling coyly, Melisande slid a hand across the top of his right thigh, coming to a halt only a few inches from his groin.
So great was his surprise that Galen’s entire body jerked.
“I would be more than happy, my lord, to bestow upon you the gift of mercy,” Melisande demurred, suggestively dropping her gaze to the hand still resting upon his thigh.
The gift of mercy.Galen had heard far too many minstrels sing of that particular “gift” not to know that it had little to do with mercy and everything to do with acts that were explicitly carnal in nature.
Taken aback, the lady’s modest tone at great odds with the brazen placement of her hand, Galen peered intently at Melisande.
A delicately fashioned woman, Melisande Jardin was possessed of small, perfectly shaped breasts and a pair of boyishly slim hips. With her lily-white complexion, vermillion stained lips, and arched brows that emphasized a huge pair of green eyes she was the embodiment of feminine beauty. At least by the standards set by those poets who specialized in the ballads of courtly love.
While he never fell in love with Melisande when they were betrothed—only weak men dabbled in love—for a time he lusted after her with great zeal. Certainly, he had considered her the perfect choice for a wife.
