Dave Duncan - When the Saints

She turned to go and he was standing in the doorway, gazing at her.

They collided into each other’s arms in a rib-cracking embrace. Anton had taught her what a man expected from a kiss. Wulf did not know the details, but he proved to be a very fast learner. It was a wonderful, passionate, soul-consuming, never-ending kiss.

Yet nothing in the world lasts forever. They broke it off eventually and just hugged, chins on shoulders, cheek against stubbled cheek. She was as tall as Wulf was-too tall, really, but the right height for Anton. Nothing else was right about Anton.

“Oh, God!” he whispered. “I love you! I have never wanted anyone or anything as much as I want you.”

“Me the same.” If he asked her to go away with him, she would, and damn the consequences, terrible though those must be. But he knew that already, and for either of them to say so now would trigger disaster for both.

“Now I know why lust is such a popular sin.”

“Love, not lust! You think I kiss every man like that?”

Grunt.

“If your brother gave kisses like that, you think I’d be here with you?”

Wulf pulled back just enough to put them eye-to-eye, much too close to focus. “You mean you like my kissing better than Anton’s?”

“His are just slobber. Yours are heaven.”

“Lady, my experience of kisses can be counted on the thumbs of one hand.”

She gave him another one for practice. Not quite so intense, perhaps, but even better, more deliberate, even longer. When it was over-

“Don’t let go,” sh co, amp;iv e murmured. “I’ll fall down.”

“We must let go,” he whispered. “Nothing good can come of this.”

He was right. Nothing good, only pain. Wulf was always right. Her handfasting to Anton ranked the same as marriage in the eyes of the Church. Few people below the rank of kings were ever granted a divorce, and about the only excuse for that was consanguinity. Even if she could prove that she and Anton shared ancestors a few generations back, then Wulf must be just as closely related to her.

If they ran away to cohabit out of wedlock, they would be in a state of sin all their lives. Friends and families would spurn them. Their children would be scorned and despised as bastards. Their daughters would never make a decent marriage; their sons could not enter a craft guild or a profession. Nor could a man marry his brother’s widow. She must not even think about that possibility.

“You’re right,” she said. “Mother will be tearing the walls down. If she isn’t, my… your brother will be. I must go.”

He released her carefully and stepped back, holding her hands as if unable to break the contact completely. There were tears in those golden wolf eyes. Men never wept; it must be the wind.

“Angel lady,” he said, staring at her.

“Hero.” She smiled. “We have an illustrated Morte D’Arthur on the bookshelf. You look just like Lancelot. But handsomer.”

He frowned. “And does Anton look like Arthur?”

Oh. She should not have said that. “Not in the least… Um… Er… What happens now?”

“Mm?” He was smiling at her, apparently not listening.

“I mean the Wends lost a lot of men. That was a big defeat. Will they try again tomorrow?”

He shrugged. “They were trying to distract us while they bring in the Dragon. It was probably just a sop to the hotheads who wanted to do it the old-fashioned, manly way. By tomorrow or Monday their guns will smash the gates to kindling.”

So today… “Can you stop them?”

“Us, you mean? Or just me?”

She tugged him close and whispered, “Just you.”

His eyes twinkled. “Do you want me to?”

“Yes, please.”

amp; ct siv heigh#x201C; Ask nicely.”

“Please, Wulfgang darling, don’t let the wicked Wends take the castle.”

“Then, just for you, I won’t.”

They shared a smile at this childish humor, but it faded like a flower in frost. Reality returned. He released her and stepped back.

“Go with God,” he murmured, and disappeared into nowhere.

She sighed and gathered her wits. Back to the infirmary.

The vineyard at Avlona was deserted and breathtakingly hot. Wulf threw down his cloak, thought about going around to the door, and decided to sit where he was for a few minutes. Justina probably knew he was there. He’d had a busy morning and needed some time to dream about Madlenka. Who loved him. Who thought his kisses were better than Anton’s! That was incredible. Anton knew everything there could be to know about pleasing women. Ever since he was fourteen, Anton had driven Father Czcibor to distraction with his lechery. The old man had even refused him communion once, and there had been a stupendous family row. But lust was a trivial sin; how would the priest weep for Wulfgang, who had just slain a hundred men with a single act of diabolical witchcraft?

Sybilla came sauntering around the corner with her lithesome hips and sultry eyes and those worrisome bulges in her blouse. Alarm bells clanged. Wulf thought hard about Father Czcibor.

“God be with you,” he said, doubting it very much. “Is Justina here?”

Sybilla sighed. “No.” She bent over to put her hands and elbows on the stone table, so she could look him in the eye and he could peer in the top of her blouse. “She’s gone to Elysium. Are you hungry?”

“I would like something to eat, yes. Thank you.” It must be noon and time for dinner.

She did not move. “Would you like to kiss me like you kissed that skinny girl?”

“You were spying on us?” Wulf barked, outraged.

Sybilla smiled dreamily. “Of course. Speakers always spy on people. You can Look in on me any time you want. In this weather I sleep without a cover.”

“I’m not interested.”

She shrugged. That was interesting. “Well, except a man, sometimes.”

About to ask what she meant, he guessed in time, then veered away from the subject. “Tell me about Rome.”

She oozed into a new position, sitting on a corner of the table, with her skirt pulled tight over the thigh nearest him. “It’s dirty and hot and smelly and even men don’t dare go out at night. There are bodies floating in the Tiber every morning and the pope holds orgies.”

“Do you often attend the pope’s orgies?”

“Father won’t let me go.”

“Who is your Father?”

“Cardinal d’Estouteville. He’s dean of the College of Cardinals, you know.”

“A cardinal, and he’s your father?”

“He calls me his niece, but everyone knows.”

“Of course.” Wulf wondered if there might be some truth in all this.

“Begone!” Justina snapped, materializing beside them. “Go and tidy your room! Or muck out a stable somewhere, if you’d rather.”

Sybilla pulled a face and vanished like a bubble.

“Come indoors, squire. I am sorry about the wench. Subtlety is not in Sybilla. If she were a workaday, I’d thrash her backside raw, but you can’t thrash a Speaker.”

Wulf took up his cloak and went with his hostess. “I find her stories entertaining,” he said, being more polite than truthful.

“They’re rarely true, but not always lies. If I don’t get her jessed soon she’ll drive me out of my mind, I swear.”

“Jessed?”

“Oh… Never mind. Married and pregnant.”

No, that was not what it meant. Jesses were the tethers applied to a bird’s legs in falconry. He had just been given another hint, which made no more sense than the others.

“Is Rome really as bad as she says?” He wondered how Anton would react to Sybilla.

“Worse, probably. Please sit. What did she say?”

The kitchen was dim and blessedly cool, with its windows shuttered against the noon heat. Pans and shelves bearing pots or jars of spices festooned the walls; hams and strings of onions dangled from low ceiling beams. Only a soft buzz of flies disturbed the silence. A solid table large enough to seat eight or so was already laden with bread, cheese, grapes, and wine.