THIRTEEN
Siward woke from a fevered dream. What kind of man dreamed he made love to a statue come to life? Or plants that moved like snakes, snaring and trapping him before the statue commanded them to stop?
He must have taken a stronger jug of wine than he'd thought. For only in his cups could he possibly place himself in such a silly fairy tale.
He stared up at the sky for a moment, reaching for the jug he knew should be beside him. All he touched were leaves, before pricking himself on a thorn. He had slept in a rosebush, then, instead of rolled in his cloak on the ground. He must do this again, for it felt far softer than the unforgiving ground. In fact, he could almost imagine the woman of his dreams beside him, pressing her breasts along his side as she reached for him once more.
