From dusk until just beyond mid of night she spent with Prince Alain: dining on fine meals with red and white wines, playing échecs and dames, visiting the great library and quietly reading poetry to one another. One evening he taught her to dance—a slow stately dance, with much pacing and pausing and turning and bowing and curtseying and touching of hands, several servants playing harps and drums and horns.
“Oh, Bear, I do love him so, and I do think he feels the same.”
The Bear looked up from his great bowl of custard, pale yellow spread round nose and jaw and chin, and he cocked his head and rumbled low, as if to ask
How could he not?
“Does
rrrumm
mean you think it so?”
“Whuff,”
said the Bear, and then stuck his nose back into the bowl and began lapping up more sweet custard.
“Well, then, it must be true,” said Camille, spreading butter on toast.
That evening, as they stood up from the dining table, Alain said, “Lady, you have put me off long enough.”
Camille drew in a sharp breath, but managed to say, “How so, my lord?”
“A nine-day past you lost a wager, and I would have you sing for me.”
Camille’s shoulders relaxed. “I seem to recall, my lord, you lost the wager to me.”
“True, I lost the first game, yet you lost the second, and the third was a draw; hence, I owe you a song, you owe me one, and mayhap we will sing a duet.”
Feeling trapped, Camille looked about the dining chamber, where they stood at opposite ends of a long table. “My lord, you surely have heard bards sing, and I am but—”
“No more excuses, Lady, for I would collect my debt.”
Camille sighed. “Very well, my lord, yet I would not have just anyone hear.”
Alain pursed his lips. “I have a harpsichord in a chamber next to my quarters, where none regularly come but Lanval.”
Clutching the flowing skirt of her white gown to lift the hem a fraction, Camille curtseyed. “As you wish, my lord.”
Alain bowed, and then paced to her end of the board and crooked his arm. She slipped her arm in his, and out into the hallways and to his wing and then to his floor they went, a place Camille had not yet been. Down a long oak-panelled hallway they strode, all the doors marked with the Summerwood sigil. Into a chamber he led her, much like her own sitting room, yet therein and just beyond the silken couches and chairs sat a cherry-wood harpsichord.
Alain sat on the bench and ran his fingers along the keyboard, plucked strings sounding in response.
“Now, my lady, what would you have me play for you, and you can sing for me.”
Camille sighed. “Do you know ‘The Sparrow in the Tree’?”
Alain laughed and clapped his hands. “Indeed I do, Camille. A splendid choice. How came you to know it, for it is quite obscure?”
“A votary of Mithras taught it to me. She said she learned it at court.”
Alain grinned. “I think I recall from your singing in the field, but is this a proper pitch for you?” He struck a single key, sounding a note.
Camille nodded, and Alain played an introductory phrase, and when he looked to Camille, she began to sing:
“Tiny brown sparrow, sitting in the tree,
Scruffy little soul, just like me,
Would you be an eagle, would you be a hawk,
Or would you wish instead to sing like a lark?
Or would you have plumage bright and gay,
Or would you wish . . .”
Camille sang verse upon verse, chorus after chorus, the song telling of a maiden who wished a different lot in life, yet who found comfort in familiar things, and she finally discovered love, which set her free to fly as the transformed sparrow she then was. And all throughout the aria, Camille’s voice soared to unrestrained heights and dropped to whispering depths, with tones so pure, so clear, so true, that tears ran down Alain’s face from the sheer perfection and joy of it.
And as the song came toward an end, Alain’s clear tenor voice joined with hers, and he caroled in flawless harmony and in melodic counterpoint to her ascendant soprano tones, he singing of the sparrow, she singing of the girl.
At last the song ended, and Alain sat long moments in silence, Camille not daring to say even a single word. Finally he looked up at her, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “My lady, you take my breath away.”
All the tension fled from Camille, and she expelled a trembling sigh and said, “My lord, I am giddy with relief that you find my singing to your like. Even so, now it is your turn to sing unto me.”
Alain wiped his eyes with his fingers and then said, “Giddy? You are giddy?” He grinned, then sobered and struck a chord and said, “ ‘The Giddy Sea.’ ” He then played an introductory phrase, and lifted his clear tenor in song, all the while looking at Camille:
“What is this thunderbolt stop’d my heart
And shook the breath from me
And set my soul a-sailing
’Pon a giddy sea?
“What is this pounding in my chest
When you come into seeing,
This wondrous surge from head to toe
That floods my entire being?
“What is this burning in my blood
That spins my head around
And stuns me trembling helplessly
As in your eyes I drown?
“Oh, should I ask the answer
From all the gods above,
When every eye can see
That I’ve been whelmed by love?
“ ’Tis you, my heart, my dearest heart,
To me this thing hast done,
And left me yearning for the days
Our two hearts become but one.
“Oh, leave me not alone, my love,
Upon this giddy sea.
Instead let’s make it giddier:
Come sail away with me.
“Leave me not alone, my love,
Come sail away with me.
Oh, my love, my sweet, sweet love,
Let us sail the giddy sea.”
As the notes faded into silence, Alain looked into Camille’s eyes and whispered, “Leave me not alone, my love, come sail away with me.”
Camille slid onto the bench and said, “I think I shall go entirely mad if you do not kiss me now.”
Alain took her in his arms and gently kissed her, and she answered with an urgency. Pent need broke free, his fire matching hers. Yet kissing, they stood, the bench toppling over, but they paid it no heed, so hot now the flames of desire. And then Alain swept her up and bore her through a doorway and into his bedchamber as Camille kissed his neck, his shoulder, his ear, as well as his cheek, silk caressing her lips.
He set Camille to her feet, and then slowly undressed her, kissing her mouth, her shoulders, her hands, her breasts.
He threw back the covers and lifted her up and laid her on silken sheets, and she watched as he undressed, all but the mask, and Camille’s breath shuddered with confusion and desire, for his slender body was beautiful, and his need was plain to see. At this last she was somewhat frightened, yet wanting.
Then he blew out the candle, saying, “I’ll not make love wearing this.”
In the darkness, he lay down beside her, his hands caressing as she clasped him to her, her lips clinging to his, their tongues exploring. And though she didn’t quite know what to do, she opened her legs when he gently moved between. There was but an instant of pain as he entered into her. And then for a moment he remained quite still, and she did not understand, but then he began slowly moving, slowly, slowly, gently. Joy, delight, desire, love: all thrilled through Camille, and she embraced Alain and began responding, her own tentative movements meeting his.
And still he moved slowly, ever so.
A joyous tension began to build, Camille’s breath coming in gasps, though Alain remained silent.
And gradually, ever so gradually, the pace of his thrusts increased, hers matching, Camille completely lost in a closeness so total, a commitment absolute, in the wonder of two being one, and the joy of being complete.
And then—“Oh, my. I never. Oh, Alain. Oh, Love. I . . . I . . .”
Moaning, gasping, wild with desire, she wrapped her legs ’round and began kissing him frantically, finding no mask to interfere, her responses frenzied, urgent, needing, wanting, matching. “Oh, Mithras. . . . Oh, sweet Mithras. . . . Oh. . . . Oh. . . . Oh . . .”
12
Idyll
D
renched in perspiration, at last they disentangled and fell away from one another, each lying back in the softness of the bed in the absolute darkness of the chamber. But then Alain rolled onto his side toward Camille and reached out and touched her shoulder and slid his finger down her arm to find her hand and enlace his fingers in hers. “Oh, my love, I had not meant for this to happen until we were wed, yet I am quite glad it did.” Camille squeezed his hand in silent agreement. Alain turned her hand over in his and kissed her palm, but then took a deep breath and expelled it. “Even so, at this time we cannot be formally married—the banns posted, the king notified, our union blessed by a heirophant. And the terrible thing is, I cannot tell you why, for to do so would bring disaster to all.”
In the darkness, Camille frowned. “I do not understand, my lord.”
“Please, Camille, when we are alone together, or within family, I am Alain, though I would rather you call me by that which you named me in the throes of our passion.”
“My love,” whispered Camille.
In the dark, Alain kissed her lips, a kiss she fervently returned. Then he captured her hand again and said, “Hear me, my sweet, I will not keep from you any secrets but this one, and only because I must, for this I do tell you, it would bring a calamity beyond reckoning were we to wed ere a terrible predicament is resolved. And I can but ask that you trust me till then, though given my silence I cannot say why you should. Yet this I do pledge: when the dilemma is banished, I will most ardently marry you, for then we can wed without bringing tragedy crashing down upon Faery, and you are my very heart.”
Alain fell silent, and Camille drew his hand to her lips and kissed each one of his fingers. “My lord, my love, my prince, my heart, my own, would that I knew this quandary you face, for then I could share the burden. Yet if it is not to be, then I do so accept, for wedded or no, I do love you most dearly.”
Alain drew her to him, flesh to flesh, and showered her with kisses, and he cupped each of her breasts and kissed curve and slope and aureole, and Camille could feel him quickening even as she responded, and passion flared anew, and they made love again, gentle at first, then afire.
Dawn was in the sky when Camille drowsily wakened. Faint light seeped ’round the edges of the curtained skylight above, the only window in the room. She turned and reached for Alain, yet he was not there, his side of the bed quite empty, the warmth of his presence nearly gone, the silken sheets growing chill in his absence. Camille sat upright and looked about, yet in the dimness, her prince was not to be seen. Where he had gone, she knew not—
Yet perchance he will soon return.
Yawning and stretching catlike, Camille then settled back, and moments later she was asleep again.
“Hruhmm!”
A man cleared his throat.
“Oh, Alain—” Camille turned to face him, then bolted upright, barely catching the silken cover as it slid down. Clasping it to her bosom, “Lanval,” she said.
“My lady,” replied the steward, a sparkle in his eye. A white silken robe was draped over his arm.
“Oh, my, but where is the prince?”
“About his business, I deem,” said Lanval. “He sent you this.” Lanval placed the snow-white, satin robe upon the foot of the bed. “Do you wish to be served your breakfast here?”
“Well . . .—Oh, no! Blanche! She will have the hounds out after me, finding my own bed empty. My lor—um, Lanval, I believe I should hie there now.”
A faint smile crossed Lanval’s face, as he took up her gown from the floor to shake out the wrinkles and then draped it across his arm. He pointedly did not even look at the undergarments, petticoats and all. “Fear not, Lady Camille, for she knows of your whereabouts. In fact, will it set your mind to ease, I deem the entire staff knows.”
Camille reddened then said, “Nevertheless, ’tis to my quarters I will go.” She pointedly looked at the white robe at the foot of the bed. “If you will excuse me . . .”
Lanval bowed and said, “I will await you in the next room.”
When he had gone through the doorway, Camille cast back the light satin cover and snatched up the robe. Quickly, she slipped it on and belted it closed, then stepped into her shoes and gathered up her undergarments, rolling all into a petticoat bundle, then turned to the bed to—
“Oh, my!” she gasped.
“My lady? Is aught amiss?”
“Oh, Lanval, I have ruined a sheet. I thought my courses ended a three-day past, yet . . .”
A smear of blood stained the bedding.
Camille looked up to see Lanval now at her side. A faint smile crossed his face. “My lady, I ween ’tis not your courses.”
“If not, Lanval, then what?”
Lanval reddened. “I’d rather not say, my lady. Ask Blanche instead.”
“Lanval!” said Camille sharply.
Lanval sighed and mumbled a few words, and to Camille it sounded as if he said, “ ’S rngrn blth.”
“What? I didn’t hear.”
Lanval took a deep breath. “ ’Tis virgin’s blood,” he said, clearly this time.
“Virgin’s blood?”
“Um, yes, my lady.” Lanval, who in other matters seemed so sure, shifted about uneasily. “Harrumph! Did not your mère speak of such?”
“Nay, she did not.”
For a moment Lanval seemed nonplused, but then he said, “Ask Blanche. She will explain.” He took a deep breath, then plunged on. “Yet hear me, for this I do know: the prince will be glad of the sheet, though I think he will not call it ruin, but a testament to virtue instead.”