Lance didn’t know. He’d thought there would be more, with Excalibur in this man’s hands…
Better to take the baffled pain out of his eyes. Art had clearly had time to think during the long watches of the night, and too much of that wasn’t good for him. “Remember,” Lance said, laying a hand to his tired face, “we were loving each other when I healed you. Maybe it takes that too, and I’ve hardly been in any fit state. I am now, though.”
Art chuckled. “Really, Sir Lancelot? You’ve just barely woken up.”
“Still. Touch me and see.”
The capable warrior’s hand pulled the tunic hem down, moved warmly into the front of the woollen britches in which Lance had also been tenderly encased. “Oh. You weren’t kidding.”
“Course not. Think about it. I’ve had you seven ways to sunset every night since I got here, until the fight. I’ve just done without for a week. No wonder I’m up for it now.”
Art shook his head. The shadows around him had vanished. “Incorrigible,” he whispered, smiling. “Wait while I go and wedge this stool against the door. Half the castle’s got used to barging in here to see how you are, especially Coel. Don’t want him to see you with your britches down and your cock down my throat, do you?”
Glad Art hadn’t suggested anything more strenuous—his arousal was real but fragile—Lance watched him seal them in. He let go a long, shuddering breath and arched his back as Art knelt over him. No healing miracles here: when he tried to thrust up, an unmanning weakness seized him, threatening the hopeful lift of his shaft. “It’s all right,” Art told him quickly, pressing hot kisses to his belly just above the place where the vigorous sable hair began. “It’s all right, dear love.” He pushed his hands under Lance’s backside and lifted, not far enough to hurt, just to give him the motion his flesh craved, the rhythmic, writhing push he’d have made for himself if he’d been able, up and into his lover’s waiting mouth.
Lance turned his head aside on the pillow, closing his eyes. He snatched up the edge of a blanket and pressed it to his lips. A cry would bring doctors, Coel and probably the Merlin in here, stool or no stool. A storm of anguished joy was building in the cauldron between his hips. Art closed his mouth hard around his cock—held him back for a few seconds with a restraining squeeze of finger and thumb around his root—then plunged down, opening his throat. The storm found passageway. After a floating, flailing instant when Lance thought deliverance would tear him apart, he went rigid, every muscle clenching.
Art held him in place until he was done. He swallowed, coughed, let Lance’s spent shaft ease out of his mouth, and knelt grinning in delight at his work. Then he folded, bright-eyed and feverish, into the bed beside him. “Better?”
“Let me show you how much.”
“Oh, that fine beast of yours has spilled all its fire for now.”
“I still have a hand.”
“Better put it on me, then. Ah, like that. Harder. Tighter. Oh, God.”
***
“You can tell me who did this to you now.”
Lance frowned. In the wake of passion, his mind clear, his shame was undiminished. “It was Garbonian.”
“What, that little rat?”
“Yes. It was how he got away from me.” He shifted in Art’s embrace. The temptation was enormous, to bury his face in the warm, rough silk of his hair and hide away. “He said something to me… I can’t remember. Anyway, I let him go. I was distracted. It was unforgivable.”
“Oh, Lance, as if anyone cares. You’re Coel’s favourite son now, in case you don’t recall. The heir to Din Guardi.”
“I do recall. And I can’t accept it.”
“I told him you’d say that. He said I must persuade you. And I knew you wouldn’t be swayed by how useful you’d be to me personally, holding a stronghold up here, so I thought I’d try a dirty trick.” He kissed Lance’s brow, his left cheek, his right, and finally his chin, a Celtic cross of love, more ancient and sacred than he could know. “Vindolanda’s very fine, but that long winter hurt the place. The soil’s exhausted. How would it be if you brought your people here?”
“My White Meadows villagers?” Lance broke into laughter. “We’d rattle like peas in a barrel.”
“What, all those little princes and princesses Ban’s no doubt already conceived? You said he was a terror among the milkmaids.”
“My mother said it kept him occupied during her pregnancies. And she didn’t mind if the milkmaids didn’t, and the bairns were strong and well cared for. You’re right—I doubt he’s changed.”
Arthur sobered. “This would be a chance for you to restore his honour, if you still care for that.”
Lance lay and watched him in silence. This view of things hadn’t occurred. As for Ban’s honour, that was Ban’s own to win again or lose, but the idea of lifting the whole struggling community he’d fought so hard to protect away from their poverty and into this safe refuge… That was almost intoxicating, the kind of sweeping miracle only a king could perform. A king with a castle as well as a name. He smiled.
Arthur nodded at him, aware he’d scored the point. An urgent rapping at the door broke their silent communion. “Here they come—the doctors and the sorcerers. The butcher, the baker, old King Coel and his fiddlers three.” He sprang out of the bed, pausing to see that Lance and his clothing were decent before he turned away. “Think about it. I’ll leave you to the mercies of your medical men. You should get some rest.” He stretched, yawned till his jaw cracked. “God knows I have to.”
He was halfway to the door when Lance asked, “What happened to Aedilthryd, by the way?”
“Who?”
“Oesa’s woman. The mouse-wife.”
Art looked at the ground. “I had her killed.” Then he sighed, shoulders sagging, and shoved the stool more firmly into place. “Wait a damn second, out there! Look, Lance, I know how you feel about women. You set them aside, away from our mess and our blood. But she was man enough to help Garb and Oesa crack this castle wide open, and I gave her a man's death for it. A soldier's. I don't know, love. Which of us really treats them according to their deserts?”
He tugged the stool away. Immediately the door swung wide, admitting a torrent of servants and physicians. Arthur entered the stream like a salmon, flashed Lance a last grin over his shoulder, and disappeared.