“But you must play. Play the game with me. Coins, cups, swords, or batons? Come now, beautiful Madame. Tell me.”
She inhaled a shaky breath, twisting her wrists in the bindings. Already the flesh was raw when she had strained, trying to free herself when he was gone.
“I would not have imagined this of you,” she whimpered.
“Did you not? Well. Then you did not know me at all.” He rubbed at his clean-shaven chin. His small eyes glimmered, but his smile did not reach them. She could tell by the tense set of his heavy brows, by his teeth digging into his lip, that he was pretending a calm he did not feel. He shoved the cards nearly under her nose. “Choose.”
“I don’t know.” She struggled to look back at the ale on the table, but she couldn’t see it. “Please!”
“Tell me!”
“Swords!” she cried, sobbing. The first thing to come into her mind was a weapon to slay him with.
He relaxed and sat back on his heels. The cards lay on his palm, and with his other hand, he slipped the topmost card off the pile. Pinching it between two fingers, he turned it over. Two of cups. “A pity. You lose. No ale for you.”
She moaned and more tears spilled from her eyes.
He put the card under the deck and rested his fingers on the top again. “Shall we see if you get any bread now?”
8
Spent, with a sheen of sweat cooling on his skin, Crispin lay back on the bed with Avelyn tucked into the crook of his neck. She was signing again, giggling as she showed him new words for impolite things.
She must have felt him chuckle against her face, and she raised her head. Her silvery blond hair lay in disarray over her shoulders, framing her petite breasts and small, round belly. Her smile was bright. Pearly teeth caught the firelight. “Who are you?” He felt soft and warm against her, and utterly relaxed. He pointed to her chest and enunciated. “Who … are … you?”
She frowned and signed the motion for “Avelyn.” He shook his head. “No. Who is…” And he made the sign for her name instead of pointing.
She seemed especially pleased by that and leaned in quickly to kiss his mouth. His hand slid along her flank, down her hip, and over the swell of her bum before she drew beyond his reach when she pulled swiftly back, sitting cross-legged. She did not seem burdened by the cold, sitting naked, clothed only in her long hair. Shadows hid her privities, though irregular wavering hearth light lit in brief flickers the tuft of ash blond curls directly below her belly. He watched her with languid eyes.
Her hands tried to explain, but he was not versed in the intricacies of her alien language. He allowed her frustration for several slow breaths before he grabbed her and pulled her back against him. “No more talking,” he said to the top of her head. “With your hands or without.” He tilted up her chin and repeated himself to her bright gaze. “No more talking. You must leave soon to return to your master. What if he received a message while you were gone?”
She blew out a sigh and began signing again. He closed a hand over hers. “No more. Sleep a little, eh?”
She tried to continue to sign, but his hand squeezed hers and he pulled her down beside him. His eyes drifted shut.
Crispin awoke sometime in the middle of the night. Avelyn still lay beside him, and in the light of the glowing ashes, he saw the shape of Jack Tucker, snuggled down in his pile of straw in the opposite corner.
He should have sent her on her way instead of selfishly holding her to him. There was little to be done about it now. He wanted to hear Jack’s news as well, but that would also have to wait. He lay back and stared up into the gloom of the rafters. Avelyn stirred, mewling like a kitten, and suddenly her bright eyes opened and she moved, propping her chin on his chest.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he whispered.
She merely smiled under heavy-lidded eyes. Still keeping his gaze, she bent her head and kissed his chest, lips trailing over his flesh until she reached a nipple and took it between her teeth. He hissed at the sensation that shot to his belly and lower. Eyes darting quickly toward Jack, still snoring, he grasped the blanket and threw it over their heads before he nuzzled his face into the warm softness of her body.
Crispin yawned into the rosy light of morning drifting in through the shutters. Jack stood stiffly, pissed into the chamber pot beside his bed of straw, and scratched his backside. Yawning as he finished his business, he shuffled toward the fire and picked up the poker. Sleepily, he jabbed it into the ashes before leaning it against the hearth and grabbing a small square of peat and a few sticks. He placed them on the glowing coals and blew on it until it sparked to a quick flame. More sticks and one of Henry’s quartered logs made for cozy warmth and light.
It was then that Avelyn jumped out of bed and stretched her small limbs. She was naked and the firelight flickered over her pale, smooth skin.
Jack’s head snapped toward her and his jaw dropped open and remained that way as, unconcerned, she stretched again and languidly bent to pull on her shift.
Crispin shivered at the cold and tugged on his own shirt, forcing himself out of bed. He stood with his backside toward the fire. “Morning, Jack.”
“Good morn, M-Master Crispin. Er…”
She offered a lazy smile and a wink to Jack and leaned her head against Crispin’s chest as they both stood by the fire, warming themselves.
“Should I … er…”
“You should heat the water,” said Crispin with a smile.
“Erm … right.” Jack scrambled for the bucket by the door, broke through the thin layer of ice, and poured a splashing dollop into an iron pot. He dragged the cauldron to the fire, kicked the trivet over the flames, and set the pot atop it.
He turned back to them, staring, eyes traveling particularly over Avelyn and her shift, which was not as opaque as Crispin would have liked.
Crispin tapped her shoulder. “Your gown. Are you not cold?”
She smirked and bent to retrieve Crispin’s braies and stockings, balled them into a bundle, and shoved them into his hands. Next she retrieved her own cotehardie and shook it out before shrugging into it.
Crispin casually donned his braies and then the stockings, tying each to the linen underwear.
With her undone buttons still gaping her gown, Avelyn handed Crispin his cotehardie and helped him slip an arm in each sleeve. She took her time buttoning it up, from the hem, lingering at his groin, then up his torso, and at last to his throat.
“Thank you,” he said, and finger-spoke it at the same time. She kissed him as a reward, and Jack made a squeak.
“What’s that, Tucker?”
“I … uh … I…”
“How’s that water coming?”
His eyes flicked to the steaming cauldron while Avelyn took up the chamber pot and retreated outside and downstairs, presumably to the privy in the back garden.
“What’s she doing here?” he rasped as the door closed. Crispin gave him a lopsided grin and Tucker scowled. “Never mind. I can see for myself.”
Crispin chuckled.
“So you can speak her finger language now, eh? Amazing what a night of concentration will do for a man.”
He cuffed the boy good-naturedly, and Jack chuckled with him.
“Just a few words,” said Crispin. “Not enough to have a proper conversation, as I suspect she was trying to do.” He frowned. “But you had your own course yesterday. Tell me, what did you discover?”
With a cloth wrapped around the pot’s bail handle, Jack lifted the cauldron from the fire and poured half of the water into the shaving basin. He returned the pot to the fire and shuffled to the back window where the wine jug sat, took it to the fire, and poured some into the remaining hot water.
“Well,” he said, swirling the water and wine in the pot. The steam curled around his face. “I returned to that preacher fellow and listened to more wailing and accusations. I don’t know if he’s right, sir. I don’t know if a man will go to Hell if he don’t take the path he was talking about. I mean, men like us, we do our best, do we not?”