Page 77 of The Sun King's Noon

“And was he a kind fellow, your first, or did he just shove it down?”

The boy’s smile stretched too tight. “He was kind, sir. Sucked me after too.”

An appreciative rumble echoed around the table. Richard considered leaving, but the thought of the boy and girl alone with these men made him uneasy.

“Alright.” The farmer winked. “Alright, I’ve got one. I’ve got a fine one. Been thinking on it. You two are sweethearts, eh? Best friends, you said. Thick as thieves. Aye?”

“Aye,” the girl said brightly.

“Well, I’d like to see a kiss,” the farmer wheedled. “A proper one, mind. Tongue and all. You show us how you kiss a lad when you mean it, and there’s a silver on the wood for each of you.”

He laid two silver coins down. The boy ogled it, and the girl yanked his sleeve.

“Wren,” she said. “Wren, come here.”

“Tilda—”

“It’s alright. It’s only Benno and them. It’s only a laugh. Come here.”

She took his face in her hands and kissed him, open-mouthed. After a flinch, Wren kissed her back, and the men whistled low. The farmer’s hand slid from Tilda’s upper arm to the side of her bodice.

Tilda and Wren broke apart, flushed and laughing nervously as they collected their coins.

“Good lass. Good lad.”

“Now,” the farmer murmured. “Now. Another one. A fine one.”

He took out six silvers.

“Reckon our Tilda here’s been kissed proper. Reckon she’s warm. Reckon she needs a little something to take the edge off, eh, lass?” He gave Wren a pointed look over the girl’s head. “So I want you, lad—I want you to slide that hand of yours under the table, put your fingers where that farm-boy put his mouth, and work her nice and slow. While we watch her face. That’s all. That’s all we want to see, just her face. Three silvers apiece. Three.”

Tilda gave a nervous giggle, while Wren went stiff.

“Tilda.”

“It’s alright. Wren.” The girl swallowed hard, brought both feet up onto the bench, gathering her skirts. “Three silvers, it is. It’s alright. Do it.”

Wren hesitated and slowly lowered his hand.

“Oh, for the gods’ sake,” Richard hissed and slammed his ale down. He crossed the three strides to their table to stand between the farmer and the butcher.

“That is enough.”

“And who the fuck,” said the farmer, “might you be?”

Richard glowered at the girl and boy. “You will both rise, take what is already in your pockets, and leave. You will do it now.”

“Who—” Tilda recovered from her gawk, the performer’s composure slipping back over her face. “Who are you, sir? Mind your own supper. We’re fine. We’re—we’re having a laugh. Benno and this lot are friends. We ain’t no lambs to?—”

“Lambs?” Richard chuckled. “No, you are not lambs, girl, for even lambs know to steer clear of wolves. I do not imagine your ringmaster knows what coin you are earning, or what you are about to do for it. I shall be delighted to inform them, in detail, within the hour.”

The colour drained from Tilda and Wren’s faces.

“Sir—sir, please, don’t?—”

“Go,” Richard snapped, all the more irritated to see their guileless apprehension. “Now.”

Tilda hurried up, and Wren swung his leg over the bench.