The deserter opened his mouth. She tightened her grip on his balls, sharp nails digging, and he closed his mouth again. She relented, nodding approval.
‘The Farrow who have come to our celebration are from all over the country, and it’s not just for a bit of fun in the woods, or even an encounter with the sacred. We are not a cult, Everett, not a bunch of inbred country bumpkins or bored aristocrats. We are a church, and a church must be maintained financially, and for that a church must grow. Do you remember how I told you that the Farrow are matriarchal, like boar themselves?’
He nodded while trying to keep as still as possible, which wasn’t easy. ‘Males are solitary,’ he said. ‘They mate and they’re off again. Right now I’m thinking they’ve got the right idea.’
She laughed a little, but didn’t loosen her grip. ‘Well, we may not be boar, but the principle is much the same; the other reason for our gathering is so that young, eligible, well-resourced young men can ally themselves with the daughters of influential families, who will leave to establish new churches, and so we grow. He provides the material security, she provides the spiritual leadership.’
‘Seems fair,’ he said. ‘Listen, is there any way I could…’
‘Shh,’ she replied, and he shushed. ‘The timescale is obviously longer than you might expect – the flesh of Moccus doesn’t grant immortality but we tend to be extremely long-lived. The match that Mother made for me with Gus – that’s his name – happened before you were born, and some year soon, when he is in a position to support a new church, we will be married and I will leave Swinley. Until then, you and I may do as we please, as long as you understand that I am not yours. I’m telling you this now because young men, like boar, tend to become territorial when a rival male appears, and, well, I like you, and I would hate for you to do something stupid and get yourself thrown out. Now, before I let you go, are you going to say something annoying or are we going to be grown-ups about this?’
‘Believe me,’ he said, ‘the last thing I intend to do is annoy you.’
She let him go and he hurried to put his clothes back on.
‘I don’t know what you think I’m going to do about it,’ he said, buttoning his shirt. ‘Challenge him to a duel for your affections?’
‘Hmm,’ she replied, pretending to give it serious consideration. ‘Which would you prefer: pistols at dawn or mounted lances in shining armour?’
‘While you watch from the top of your ivory tower? Sorry, my lady.’ He laughed and shook his head. ‘You women. How it flatters you to think that we’re all dripping hard and squaring up to compete for the privilege of rutting with you. You wave us off to fight with tears in your eyes. You love us when we’re heroes, home on leave or wounded somewhere that doesn’t turn us into stammering eunuchs, and you dole out white feathers to the chaps who won’t or can’t live up to your fairy-tale ideal. If I wanted to challenge this well-heeled beau of yours, whatever his damned name is, I’d bite his throat out in his sleep. But I’m not. I have no interest in him. I came here for me first and foremost, and while you’ve been a pleasant enough bit on the side, please don’t imagine that I intend to endanger that by pandering to your romantic delusions.’ He finished buttoning his shirt. ‘I hope that wasn’t too annoying.’
For a moment he thought she was going to slap him, but instead she took his face in her hands and kissed him full on the lips. ‘Perfect,’ she murmured against him. ‘You’re absolutely perfect.’
* * *
The last thing Everett wanted to do was sit down to dinner and make polite conversation. He wanted to take this newfound vitality and run with it into the night – run to the top of Edric’s Seat and howl at the stars, or find Sus in the woods and see what it was like to fuck something nearly human, or get drunk with Gar and fight him until neither of them could stand. He almost told her that her dinner could go to the devil, but found that he was curious to see who or what she had been allied with, so he agreed.
His curiosity was not justified. Augustus Melhuish and his parents were no more or less than he’d expected: self-assured in their privilege and generous with their facile opinions about the war. While he found nothing threatening about the young man, Gus obviously found some in him, because he kept making arch comments about what a good sport Ardwyn was, and wasn’t she such a sport, and didn’t Everett think that she was a sport, as if to stake his claim over her, and because an annoying fly must eventually be swatted, the deserter found himself responding with, ‘I’m curious as to what kind of sport you think she is, exactly, Gus. Something involving balls or one that requires a spirited mount?’ which shut him up – at least until they were leaving.
When Gus found him, he was smoking a cigarette by Mother’s sty of prize Welsh pigs, enjoying the darkness and the ability to draw a full lungful of smoke again without choking. The deserter was surprised to see that they too had participated in the feast; they were nosing in one of the great bronze bowls, and had licked it clean. These beasts were obviously more important than he had first thought. Then Gus arrived, interrupting his train of thought as he looked the deserter up and
