Bolthor was being overrun with women. They accosted him in every manner and place they could. One even tried to enter the privy with him. A man was not safe in any nook or cranny of the keep, where all sane persons must needs stay till the ice storm outside died down. He had taken to sleeping with two wolfhounds in a separate sleeping closet near the hearth, which was hot as Muspell with the huge yule logs they kept putting on the fires. He had cajoled and then threatened Alinor to call off her jackals, to no avail. Finally, he’d had to tell the women themselves in no uncertain terms that he was not interested, not even if they threw in some free bedsport as an enticement. Undaunted, the fickle women just turned their attention to other prey . . . uh, men . . . about the hall. The only one not participating in the chase was the irksome Katherine, who scarce spoke to him since calling him godly handsome two days past. When she did deign to address him, it was to make some sarcastic remark.
