psychomachia
"Wait," he says, round blue eyes squinting at her through the afternoon sun. "You. You're the mill wench Henry talks about."
Theresa knows who he is, of course. She has seen him haunt the corners of both of Rattay's taverns, the splendid caparison of his stallion hitched outside, somehow not quite as yellow and regal as the hair which falls in an all-too-orchestrated manner across his soft temples.
Theresa knows she must wait for him to excuse her. She knows this. Even without his celebrity in this town, his fine clothing is more than enough to indicate how this exchange is supposed to go.
But, he is yet to introduce himself. He is stuck in thought, and she can hear his mind keening, turning over itself.
He grips her arm. She is desperate to be elsewhere.
"Would you kindly excuse—"
"Sir Hans Capon of Leipa and Pirkstein," he says abruptly, and, with a smile, releases her—physically. His hand now free, he throws it in a gesture to the seat opposite. "Stay. Have a drink with me."
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