Saying nothing, she went to the bed he had devised and lay down upon it stiffly, settling a hip carefully as she turned onto her side. Leaves compressed. Twigs crackled. She lay very still, eyes squinched closed, jaws clenched, trying to breathe normally and hoping shadow shielded her face. Silence. “Well?” he asked at last. “It would be better with a cloak thrown over it, but we have none. I left it with the horse.” She smelled dampness, sap, and earth. She would not tell him the truth: even a cloak over the bedding would offer her little comfort.
“It will do,” she said quietly, tucking a leaf down from her mouth.

He nodded. “Get up.”

“But I only just—”

“Please.” She got up, as requested, picking leaves and twigs from her hair and kirtle.

Mutely she watched as he lay down in her place, testing the bed. He was silent. Then, with infinite irony, “You are polite.

Author: Jennifer Roberson