“I think not, you little bitch! Now, just….”
“Wichman.”
Halting at the mouth of one of these dark corners, he saw two shapes caught in an intimate embrace, one pressing hard against the other, trapping her against a boarded-off back wall.
“Oh, Lord, Sanglant! Can’t you let me be?”
“Let the woman say she prefers to remain of her own free will, and I’ll walk on.”
She was breathless, straining against groping hands, and desperate. “I pray you, Your Majesty. Grant me your protection. He’s trying to rape me.”
Wichman slapped her.
Sanglant grabbed his shoulder and yanked him back. The other man, turning, came at him with a punch that landed on Sanglant’s chin and slammed him into the other wall. Wichman was in a rage, and pushed in cursing and pummeling fists against his body. God, Wichman was strong. Each slug staggered Sanglant. Most he caught on his arms, but one got under his guard and punched up right under his ribs, making him grunt.
Sanglant hooked a leg around Wichman’s, shoved against him with his hip, and upended him, then came down with both knees on his chest.
Wichman coughed and swore. “One isn’t enough for you? You have to have all of them?”
Three servants and two guards appeared, looking anxious.
“Go on,” said Sanglant, and they looked at his expression and scurried away.
“Perhaps you have to force women to get them in bed with you, Wichman, and perhaps you mind not that they hate and fear you for it, or perhaps you even enjoy it, but I won’t tolerate it.”
“What will you do to me, Your Majesty?” he said with a sneer. “What can you do?”
Sanglant wiped a bit of blood from his lip. It would swell later. “Marry you to Bertha of Austra.”
“She’s dead! Your wife lost her!”
“She may not be dead. If she lives, she’ll find her way back to Wendar. What would you think of that?”
“You don’t scare me, Cousin. I’ll take the puling maiden that’s Bertha’s little sister. I hear she’s comely enough. And Westfall in the bargain. Or make me duke of Saony. That will make my sisters croak and bark! Too late for that, isn’t it! You gave Saony to your sister like a bone to a bitch, for she’ll never have the throne. What’s left for me, eh? I found me a tight sheath for my sword, as my consolation, so leave me be, you damned prick!”
He was wild, and aroused, no better than a dog that has scented a bitch in heat. Impossible to reason with.
“Do not touch this woman again.” Sanglant stood, and he braced himself as Wichman rose, brushed off his clothing, and laughed.
“Saving her for yourself? She’s handsome enough, if not as bright a jewel as your soulless wife.”
Sanglant punched him hard, and Wichman went down again, and this time rose afterward with more caution, rubbing his chin.
“I’m not angry, Wichman. Nothing you say about my wife can harm her, but it’s necessary for you to understand that on my progress you must curb your tongue.”
“I meant to curb my tongue in this warm creature’s lips. Why are you so stingy?” He took a half step toward Sanglant, but thought better of it. “Kings ought to be generous, not close-fisted, hoarding all the gold for themselves.” He walked away.
“My lord,” she said from the darkness where she hid. “Your Majesty. I thank you.”
He knew who it was. He’d known all along. “Have you any boon to ask of me, Frederun?” he asked her.
“Nothing you can grant me, Your Majesty.” She moved forward enough that he could see her shadowed face and the curve of her breasts and hip beneath her linen gown but not so close that he could touch her without taking a step toward her to claim her. “What I most desire I can never have.”
“Have you any need of a dowry to make your way? For a marriage, perhaps? To be released from your service in the palace?”
“I need nothing, Your Majesty. Only to be left in peace. I like my service here well enough and the company of the other women who are my companions. It is only men who trouble me.” A tremor afflicted her voice, and he knew he was partly the cause of it but that she could never say so.
“Are you content?”