was
fitting. The floor was covered with the finest tanned leather, and with mats of
woven grasses, sweet-scented and pleasant underfoot. The sleeping-furs were of
the best, and there were great treasures scattered among them: weapons of rare
quality, coats and cloaks beaded and embroidered in patterns as magical as they
were beautiful, necklaces of bone and stone and precious shell spread atop
baskets of close and intricate weaving, skull-cups inlaid with bright stones
and bits of shell, drinking-gourds painted with care and complexity, and, great
treasures those, clay pots, some ornamented, some plain, that had come in trade
from countries far away.
There was too much to take in all at once. Wolfcub let it
enter his eyes as if he had been on a hunt, to remember later piece by piece,
as he chose and as it amused him.
Now what he chiefly saw were the women who waited by the
king’s sleeping-furs. The rest would be hidden away behind a curtain, or
perhaps had gone elsewhere for the night. He never had known what women did
when men were not thinking of them, nor had he known to care.
These were the captives, the prizes of battle or raids, whom
the king had chosen or who had been allotted him as the best of the booty. They
were not all the most beautiful, though none was ill to look on. Some, he knew
from rumor, had gifts that served the king: weaving baskets, tanning hides,
cooking or singing or, as people whispered, pleasing a man in the
sleeping-furs.
Wolfcub did not know which of them was which. They all stood
as women were supposed to stand, eyes lowered, hands folded, submissive. Most
were fair or redheaded like women of the People. Two were darker. These came
from the south and west, Wolfcub knew, where the little dark people lived;
where Sparrow’s mother had come from, taken in war long ago.
Neither of them had quite her cast of feature. Both were
lovely, doe-eyed and soft-cheeked, with full breasts and deep round bellies.
Wolfcub turned resolutely away from them, and chose almost
without a glance, stretching out his hand to a blur of white face and fair
hair. “Well chosen!” cried Linden, whose presence Wolfcub had all but
forgotten. “Beauty and skill both, and a voice like water running. You’ve a
fine eye for a woman, brother.”
Wolfcub, who had brothers enough, but none of them was this
one, held his tongue and made himself look at this paragon of women whose hand
had happened to be closest. She was beautiful indeed. She seemed compliant,
which the dark women had not. If it troubled her to be given to a callow boy,
she did not show it. Maybe he would be a relief from the old man who was her
husband, and the elders to whom she must be given most often as a gift.
His body had no difficulty in wanting her, whatever his mind
did and wherever it wandered. He looked about. The women whom he had not chosen
had withdrawn, but Linden was there still, and one of the women, a plump
freckled creature with hair as red as fire. She had a bold look, now she was
almost alone, and a wicked eye, which she cast on the thing thrusting beneath
Wolfcub’s leggings.
“There now,” said Linden, “be patient. I’ll let you have
him—but you have to take me first.”
The woman laughed. “You’re pretty,” she said in a barbarous
accent. “He’s not pretty. But when he grows up—aaahhhh.” She let the sigh go on
and on.
“But I,” said Linden, “am pretty now.” He swept her up in
his arms and, to Wolfcub’s considerable relief, carried her off behind one of
the curtains that divided the tent. Wolfcub had feared that he would be forced
to couple in front of the king’s son—and, perhaps worse, in front of the plump
and lecherous woman Linden had chosen.
But Wolfcub was alone with his own choice, who was not plump
and who did not appear to be lecherous, either. Indeed she seemed a cold
creature, such a one as suffered a man’s presence but took no pleasure in it.
Maybe, after all, he should have taken
fitting. The floor was covered with the finest tanned leather, and with mats of
woven grasses, sweet-scented and pleasant underfoot. The sleeping-furs were of
the best, and there were great treasures scattered among them: weapons of rare
quality, coats and cloaks beaded and embroidered in patterns as magical as they
were beautiful, necklaces of bone and stone and precious shell spread atop
baskets of close and intricate weaving, skull-cups inlaid with bright stones
and bits of shell, drinking-gourds painted with care and complexity, and, great
treasures those, clay pots, some ornamented, some plain, that had come in trade
from countries far away.
There was too much to take in all at once. Wolfcub let it
enter his eyes as if he had been on a hunt, to remember later piece by piece,
as he chose and as it amused him.
Now what he chiefly saw were the women who waited by the
king’s sleeping-furs. The rest would be hidden away behind a curtain, or
perhaps had gone elsewhere for the night. He never had known what women did
when men were not thinking of them, nor had he known to care.
These were the captives, the prizes of battle or raids, whom
the king had chosen or who had been allotted him as the best of the booty. They
were not all the most beautiful, though none was ill to look on. Some, he knew
from rumor, had gifts that served the king: weaving baskets, tanning hides,
cooking or singing or, as people whispered, pleasing a man in the
sleeping-furs.
Wolfcub did not know which of them was which. They all stood
as women were supposed to stand, eyes lowered, hands folded, submissive. Most
were fair or redheaded like women of the People. Two were darker. These came
from the south and west, Wolfcub knew, where the little dark people lived;
where Sparrow’s mother had come from, taken in war long ago.
Neither of them had quite her cast of feature. Both were
lovely, doe-eyed and soft-cheeked, with full breasts and deep round bellies.
Wolfcub turned resolutely away from them, and chose almost
without a glance, stretching out his hand to a blur of white face and fair
hair. “Well chosen!” cried Linden, whose presence Wolfcub had all but
forgotten. “Beauty and skill both, and a voice like water running. You’ve a
fine eye for a woman, brother.”
Wolfcub, who had brothers enough, but none of them was this
one, held his tongue and made himself look at this paragon of women whose hand
had happened to be closest. She was beautiful indeed. She seemed compliant,
which the dark women had not. If it troubled her to be given to a callow boy,
she did not show it. Maybe he would be a relief from the old man who was her
husband, and the elders to whom she must be given most often as a gift.
His body had no difficulty in wanting her, whatever his mind
did and wherever it wandered. He looked about. The women whom he had not chosen
had withdrawn, but Linden was there still, and one of the women, a plump
freckled creature with hair as red as fire. She had a bold look, now she was
almost alone, and a wicked eye, which she cast on the thing thrusting beneath
Wolfcub’s leggings.
“There now,” said Linden, “be patient. I’ll let you have
him—but you have to take me first.”
The woman laughed. “You’re pretty,” she said in a barbarous
accent. “He’s not pretty. But when he grows up—aaahhhh.” She let the sigh go on
and on.
“But I,” said Linden, “am pretty now.” He swept her up in
his arms and, to Wolfcub’s considerable relief, carried her off behind one of
the curtains that divided the tent. Wolfcub had feared that he would be forced
to couple in front of the king’s son—and, perhaps worse, in front of the plump
and lecherous woman Linden had chosen.
But Wolfcub was alone with his own choice, who was not plump
and who did not appear to be lecherous, either. Indeed she seemed a cold
creature, such a one as suffered a man’s presence but took no pleasure in it.
Maybe, after all, he should have taken
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