She was not thin, yet wore her weight as if she belonged in it, and no life of idyll or tug of years pulled down upon her. The curves were round and he had a vision of her in the future, swollen with child yet pretty much the same as she was now.

Osserc wondered, as he drew her to him, if she made use of the herbs the whores employed to ensure that a man’s seed took no root. As far as he knew, he’d yet to sire a bastard, though it was known that some whores went away and did not return, suggesting that the herbs were not foolproof. He had no aversion on that count, though his father would be less than pleased. Still, Urusander knew of his son’s trips down to the taverns – no doubt Hunn Raal kept his lord informed, perhaps in detail.

She was tentative at first, until her desire awoke to his measured caress, and much as he wanted to throw her down on the cloak and rut like a boar, he held himself back.

‘There’s an art to torturing women in bed, Osserc. You want to tease … like a lake’s waves rolling on to the shore, with each wave reaching farther, only to slide back and away. You offer the flood, you see? And keep offering it, but not giving it, not until she begs to be drowned – and you’ll know it by how she holds you, her clutching hands, her gasps. Only then do you take her.’

When at last he slid into her, she cried out.

He felt something give inside her and wondered what it was, and only when they were at last done, and he rolled away and saw the blood, did he comprehend. She knew nothing of herbs, and her beloved was a man kept at a distance, and what he longed for Osserc had just stolen. The poor fool was finished.

Lying on his back, staring up at scudding summer clouds, he wondered how he should feel about all of that. ‘Renarr,’ he finally said. ‘If had known …’

‘I am glad, milord, that it was you.’

He heard her hesitation halfway through her confession, and knew that she had almost voiced his name; but in the wake of what they had done a new fragility had arrived, and Osserc knew enough to say as little as possible. He did not want this peasant girl walking up to the keep, belly distended, and shouting out his name.

His father would take her in – if only to spite his son. Things would get complicated. Besides, he had told her as much, hadn’t he? His future, the service and the sacrifices awaiting him? She understood well enough.

‘I will not ride with you into the village,’ she said.

He nodded, knowing she was up on one elbow and studying his face.

‘I need to go back to the stream.’

‘I know.’

‘Alone.’