He went, like a man dreaming, and returned to find her cutting the manchet into slices and spreading them with honey.
“To-morrow you shall see how I can cook. White meat and broth and bread, and wine-cakes and honey-manna! I bid you be hungry, or my hands will be grieved.”
They made their meal there, while the sun sank to the horizon, its level rays pouring over the woods and fringing the tree-tops with fire. The red roses glowed with a transparent brilliance, like precious stones. The grassland track between the woods had become a gulf of gloom. The water under the farther bank lay black as ink, but the willows above it were dusted with gold.
Fulk poured wine into the maplewood cups. He watched Isoult drink, her white throat showing.
“A pledge, Isoult, a pledge.”
They touched cups, looking into each other’s eyes.
“To my dear lady.”
“To my dear lord.”
Dusk drew on. The west was all gold, the trees black as ebony, the water in the pool still as glass.
Isoult took the lute and touched the strings.