“Amos has told me of oceans.” She tilted her head a little, as if considering. “It seems a strange thing, all that water.”
Martin laughed a little, feeling his nervousness diminish. “It is a strange thing, strange and powerful. I’ve never liked ships, but I’ve had to sail them, and after a while you appreciate how beautiful the sea can be. It is like . . .” He halted, words not coming. “Laurie should tell you, or Amos. Both have a flair for words I lack.”
She placed her hand upon his arm. “I would rather hear them from you.” She turned toward the window, her face sculptured by orange torchlight, her hair a black crown in the half-light. She was silent for a long moment and then looked at Martin. “Are you a good hunter?”
Suddenly Martin was grinning, feeling like a fool. “Yes, very good.” Both knew there was no false boasting, just as there would be no false modesty. “I am elven-taught and know only one man who may be a fairer archer than I.”
“I enjoy the hunt but rarely have time, now that I command. Perhaps we may steal away some time and look for game. It is more dangerous here than in your Kingdom, perhaps, for while we hunt, others may be hunting us.”
Coolly Martin said, “I have dealt with the moredhel before.”
She regarded him frankly. “You are a strong man, Martin.” Placing her hand upon his arm, she said, “And I think a good man, as well. I am Briana, daughter of Gwynnath and Gurtman, of the line of Alwynne.” These were formal words, yet there was something else in them, as if somehow she was revealing herself to him, reaching out to him.
“I am Martin, son of Margaret . . .” For the first time in years he thought of his mother, a pretty serving girl in Duke Brucal’s court. “ . . . and Borric, of the line of Dannis, first of the conDoins. I am called Martin Longbow.”
She looked long at his face, as if studying each feature. Her expression changed as she smiled. Martin felt heat burst in his chest at the sight of it. Then she laughed. “That name suits you, Martin Longbow. You are as tall and powerful as your weapon. Have you a wife?”
Martin spoke softly. “No. I . . . I had never met anyone . . . I’ve never had a way with words . . . or women. I’ve not known many.” She placed her fingertips on his lips. “I understand.” Suddenly Martin found her in his arms, her head on his chest, how he didn’t know. Gently he held her, as if the slightest motion would cause her to flee. “I do not know how things are done in your Kingdom, Martin, but Amos says you avoid speaking openly of things we take for granted in Armengar. I do not know if this is such a thing. But I do not wish to be alone this night.” She looked again at his face, and he saw both desire and fear there and understood her needs. Softly, almost inaudibly, she said, “Are you as gentle as you are strong, Martin Longbow?”
Martin studied her face and knew no words were needed. He held her for a long time in silence, until she slowly moved away, took his hand, and led him off toward her quarters.
For a long time Arutha sat watching Guy. The Protector of Armengar was lost in his own thoughts, drinking absently from his ale cup, the fire’s crackle the only sound in the room. Then at last Guy said, “The thing I miss most is the wine, I think. There are times when it suits a mood, don’t you agree?”
Arutha nodded, sampling his own ale. “Amos told us of your loss.”
Guy waved absently, and Arutha could see he was a little drunk, his movements not as sure, not quite as controlled. But his voice betrayed no slurring of speech.
He sighed deeply. “More your loss than mine, Arutha. You never met her.”
Arutha didn’t know what to say. He suddenly felt irritated by this, as if he was being forced to watch something private, somehow being forced to share a bond of grief with a man he should hate. ,”You said we needed to speak, Guy.”