“I don’t understand.”
“Art, you must.” And yet Lance himself couldn’t get any further with putting into words his deep, formless unease. Dragons, worms, a castle under curse. The sword that Art called Excalibur, flashing end over end and disappearing over a cliff. Some power once strong in the land, now crippled and raging, a river thrust out of its course… “Something’s changing, and it’s not good. If we treat women this way…”
“Didn’t you hear me?” Art interrupted him passionately. He pushed his hair back, lifted his chin and stared at Lance with all his old unbridled honesty and fire. “I damned well offered you a boy as well!”
“You are absolutely missing my point.” If Lance let a ripple of laughter into his voice, he was lost. Nothing about this was funny, except Art’s clumsy, generous, utterly misdirected efforts to share the resources at his disposal. “I don’t want a girl—or a boy, for that matter.”
“Whatdoyou want, then?”
Lance released a long breath.Oh, let this long night play out however it must, he swore inwardly. Let all dice be rolled, all chances seized like wild horses and ridden on till dawn. He leaned his back against the wall, folded his arms. “I think,” he said, voice dropping to a soft growl, “I want my prize.”
***
“Give me that, before you put paid to your other bollock.”
“I can’t. My hands have gone numb.”
“Are you cold?”
“No, it’s just that… all the blood in me seems to be heading elsewhere. Thank God. I wasn’t sure I’d still be able.”
Lance sat up on the narrow bed. There was barely room for two, and Excalibur and its gem-encrusted scabbard had already dealt them a few bruises. Deftly he undid the strap and buckles holding Art’s swordbelt in place. “Lift up your hips for me.”
Art groaned. “I can’t. Everything hurts so damn much.”
Lance eased a hand under him and tugged the belt free. He grabbed the hilt of the sword before it could clatter on the stone flags. Although the door to his chambers was thick, it had no lock. “Let me see.”
“What?”
“Your injury.”
“No, Lance. It shames me.”
“It’s a battle scar. Why should you be ashamed?”
“I don’t know, but I am. And I’m sorry I angered you about the women. If it makes any difference, they’re Coel’s household customs, not mine.”
“Are things so very different at Cam?”
“A little. Ardana’s a widow. At my court, she’d be let ride out with Guy, to local skirmishes at least, just as she did with her first two husbands here. Instead she has to sit in the solar with the other wives and work tapestries.”
“Come here. Let me help you sit up.”
“Why?”
“What do you think happened—in the time between Ardana’s first two husbands and Guy, I mean? Why can’t she ride out with him?”
“Oh, God knows. The priests, I think. Not the old boys from Ireland and Cerniw—the ones they sent from Rome, or trained up at Canterbury and places like that. Lance, you think you’re very cunning, but I am aware that you’re undressing me.”
“Is that something you’d rather I didn’t do?”
Art shivered. “I’ve thought or dreamed about you doing something of the kind every night since I left you.”
“I, too. Does this have any kind of fastening?”
“No, it comes off over my head.”
“Put your arms up, then.” Lifting the robe away was the work of a moment. For all its fine embroidery, the fabric was supple and light. “How beautiful this is,” Lance observed, thoughtfully, almost as if to himself. “How beautifulyouare.”
