“Eyvind,” she said gently. “That’s your name, isn’t it? I’m Signe, a friend of your brother’s, an old friend and a true one. Eirik tells me all his secrets. Don’t be shy, Eyvind. You’re a man, I see that: a fine man. Your first time, is it?”

“I–ah–yes, but—”

“Come on, sit here by me and let’s talk a little. You can talk to me; I’ve heard everything, and more. Why don’t you put your hand here, like this—ah, that’s nice, isn’t it—and I’ll put mine here…no wonder they call you the little ox, sweetheart…now tell me. Something’s worrying you about this, and yet you want it, that’s plain as a pikestaff. Tell me now, Eyvind.”

Her voice was so kind, and her hand so wondrously exciting, that between those two things he did, at last, manage to blurt out the truth.

“It’s just—it’s just, I wouldn’t want to hurt you, or upset you.”

“What? Why would you do that, love? What put such an idea into your head?”

“I thought—I was told—” The movement of her hand was agonizing, so sweet it was a sort of blissful torture, a tantalizing pain. “Well, that women don’t like doing this, that they get no pleasure from it, and only agree to it because men make them. And I don’t like the sound of that at all. That’s why I haven’t—why I never—”

Signe had taken her hand away. He thought he might explode with longing, and disgrace himself then and there.

“Who told you that?” she asked him, her eyes round with surprise.

“Just someone. I heard it somewhere. A friend.”

Signe sighed and rose to her feet. Now she would send him away, and he would feel even more of a numbskull than he did already, his body on fire and his stupid tongue unable to say yes.

“That was wrong, sweetheart,” Signe said gently, and she untied the ribbon at the neck of her gown and let the folds of sheer linen fall to the floor. “It’s up to the man to make sure she enjoys it. Here, let me show you.”