She stared at the base of his throat, unsmiling. He regretted speaking of Bassinger, bringing the world into their seclusion. To distract her, he loosed his hand from her hold. He cupped her breast, caressing his thumb over the dark rosy crown.
She drew in a swift breath. The shade of a frown hovered between her brows. She slanted a look up at him.
"You've lied to me, monk man. You're no abstinent from women."
He shook his head. "I've told you truth, my lady, before God."
"No." She rolled onto her back, gripping his wrist. "What of this manner of—kissing and touching? In God's name, where did you discover such things?"
He lifted his eyebrows. "This?" He made a slow circle with his thumb. "Lady, I've been married. A husband will touch his wife so."
She gave him a look as offended as any scandalized abbess. "Mine did not!"
Ruck tilted his head, resting his cheek on his fist. "Did he not? I can't say why, my lady, but that pleases me to hear."
"And—I didn't mean only—this—but your...unnatural kisses. I think me only lewd gallants and carpet knights know of such perversions!"
He ceased his caress and lowered his eyes. She seemed truly agitated by the transgression. To be sermoned by the Princess Melanthe, of all people, made him think he must truly have been immoral to the worst degree of vice.
"Forgive me, my lady." He set his mouth. "I thought—such a one as you, wise in love-amour—I thought me you'd know these things, and like them. I'll not offend you so again, I swear it."
She curled both her hands about his. "No, no, you mistake me. I did—I took pleasure, wee loo, how could I say I didn't? But—" She turned her face to him. "Where indeed have you learned them, if not from dissolute women and harlots?"
"I haven't had recourse to harlots." He withdrew his hand, staring down at the silken carpet between them. "I learned it from confession."
"Confession!"
"Aye, lady."
She sat up. "Priests I know who are full of impurity, but I didn't think they taught it in the church."
"They ask—" He plucked at the nap of the carpet and looked up at her sideways. "Do they not ask questions of you, my lady?"
"Of course. Have I been idle, or proud, and suchlike?"
"No more than that?"
She hugged her knees. "Envious? Angry? Grasping? Gluttonous?" she recited, and lifted her shoulders in a shrug. "Had I one would clatter and carp that I adorned myself too fine, until I wearied of it, and had him removed and another in his place."
"Oh," he muttered. He picked at the motley silk.
"They inquire of you else?"
He scowled. "Yes. Of my lust." He spread his fingers, rubbing them back and forth over the nap. "They ask, have I not engaged in lecherous touches and embraces—and when I say I have not, asks the confessor in another way, haven't I touched a woman on her breasts, or her body. And neither does he trust me no more than you, my lady, when I say him nay, and asks again, as if I'd said yes, then did I not touch her womb-gate and her merkin? And did I not kiss her there and on her teats, for to make her lewd? And did I not mount her unnaturally, as the beasts couple, or let her mount onto me? And did I not do it on a holy day?" He made a snort of misery. "And then do I think of little else, when I go out, but what I might do if I had me a wife and might use her."
"Well," she said softly, but he could hear mirth in her voice.
His jaw hardened. "So, if you believe me—I did not learn vice from harlots."
"Perhaps you could teach them!" she suggested.
He lay back with a deep sigh, stuffing a cushion under his neck and clasping his hands behind his head. She regarded him, and then reached up and touched his bent knee.
"It's because they take measure of your form and vigor, and can't conceive that a man like you would be continent. So did that priest reckon me for excess in adornment."
He hadn't been perfectly continent, but he was not going to tell her more of the grinding inquisitions he received on the matter, not when the worst crime she was required to acknowledge appeared to be excess adornment.
"Is true, then," she asked, "that those things be not sin in marriage?"
"Some say yes, and some no." He remained staring between his knees.
"You've studied much on this matter?"
He nodded.
She rocked back on her hips and laughed. "In truth, we'll send you to confession very often, monk man, for your further instruction!"
He let his gaze wander up to the window, to the chimney—to her, as she sat curled with the warm firelight on the curve of her back. He smiled slowly. "As God and my liege lady command me."
EIGHTEEN
The first thing Melanthe knew was the roar of a voice and the chime of rings sliding as the bedcurtains swept open and gray light poured over her. "Baseborn whore!"
A monstrous black outline flashed, and something came hurtling at her. Through the blankets a blow smashed into her neck and shoulder.
The black flashed again. She heard a shout, the thing came at her, and suddenly another weight bore down atop her, between her and the assault. A sound like an ax on wood cracked through her head. The weight on her jerked, and jerked again under another hit. Through a daze she realized that it was Ruck above her, his body pressing her down as someone beat him, raining blows on his naked back.
"High morn is it!" their attacker howled. "Rise, boy, or lose your hide! Your commoner is killed; base whore you took to wife, and I'll slay her bastards to clean the nest! She was unworthy of you! Adaw, the swords await." His weapon cracked down again. "Up! Will you mount a bloody corpse? Get up!"
The hits had lost a little of their energy. Ruck lifted himself. He raised his arm; she saw a grizzled man beside the bed—the descending wooden sword whacked into the palm of Ruck's hand. He held the weapon off and jerked it from their assailant's double grip as he rose, hurling it away. It struck the open door and woke a thunder of echoes in the spiraled stair beyond.
"Cease off!" Stride-legged and naked, his back reddened by beating, Ruck glared at the savage old man. "Take heed and stand back."
The man didn't even glance at Ruck. "Stinking bitch-clout, do you breathe still?" He came for Melanthe, gray and powerful, his beard an untamed mat. "Hey and ware, I'll soon strangle you!"
Ruck sprang to prevent him, ramming him back, holding him with an arm across his chest. "No, sir, it's folly! Heed to me!"
"Heed you!" The man fought, big and strong enough in spite of his years to force Ruck to arm's length, but none of his struggle could break him free. "Heed you, you pillock, while you degrade your mother, God forgive her! While you corrupt your father's line with common blood!" He spat toward Melanthe.
"Enough! Cease off this blundering!" Ruck caught him by the shoulders. With a grunt of effort he forced the old man to his knees. "Get down!"
The man made wild efforts to rise, but Ruck held him down. "I have no children," Ruck said fiercely. "You know this. I've said you many times. Now listen to me. Isabelle is dead years ago. My lady's grace is the Princess Melanthe, of Monteverde and Bowland. And my wife. I'd have you understand it clearly, and repeat my words, that I know I may release you."
The old man ceased his combat. Melanthe clutched the sheet and her hand over her bruised shoulder. He turned pale, lifting his face to her. "Bowland?" he said, his voice suddenly atremble. "The daughter of Sir Richard?"
Ruck let him go. The old man's body shook. As he bowed down his head to his knees and began to weep, Ruck looked quickly toward Melanthe. "My lady—are you hurt?"
Her arm throbbed, but the quilts had muffled the impact of the sword. She was more stunned than in pain. Wordlessly she shook her head. He turned, kneeling to embrace their groaning attacker, holding him tight, as if he were a child.