|Sagramore (petitmorte) wrote,|
@ 2009-09-15 21:56:00
Sagramore has been dallying a great deal the last week or so with the wife of a visiting lord--the lord has been in conference with Arthur for hours on end, and the lady is young, lonely, and excitable. Her name is Eleanor, and she has a considerable talent for languages; she's picked up enough Hungarian to make love and conversation.
He's learning to be very discreet, but the lady isn't, or at least she's shared with her maids, and they've shared with the castle's, and it's common knowledge to anybody who listens, which evidently her husband doesn't. If Arthur knows, he hasn't chastised Sagramore yet (which makes it unlikely that he has).
But it's not Eleanor he's kissing good-bye this evening. Gwytha's been telling him the castle gossip, as she does, and in Arthur's place she issued a stern warning.
"Sweet-heart, canst not have sport with a lady like that. Her lord's one of them to be cordial with, and there's naught cordial in bedding his wife. Leave her be, tell her something. Tell her something fine, thou knowst lots of fine things to say."
"But I love her--"
Gwytha leans close. "Sweet, hush thy tongue and listen to me. The Queen bade me tell thee so. Thou'lt make things ill between our cities."
He sighs and nods, his hands at her waist. Gwytha smiles up at him--he's getting tall enough that it's not just Mordred who has to stretch--and kisses the base of his throat.
"Th'art a good boy."
Sagramore's arms tighten a little and he buries his face in her hair.