“Your benefactions have enriched my order. I have much to thank you for.”
“How is the abbess?”
Jasper knew she was really referring to her gift of the former slave girl to the temple of Love. Hwe Li had effectively been granted her freedom by being gifted to the order. “The abbess seems well, though I’ve spent little time with her since my return.”
“And must depart before too long?”
“Yes.”
“Only remember, monk, whatever you do, whatever your commitment to my husband, remember that I will destroy any who harm my son, endanger him or fail to protect him.”
“Let’s hope my mission improves his prospects then.”
“If you fail, if Amery fails, remember my son, and my promise.”
“The heir to Vrong Veld will always have the protection of the Crimson Monks, whatever his future throne.”
“Don’t mistake me, knight commander,” she said, referring to his rank within the order, “I dream as great a future for my son as his father dreams for himself, but if I have to choose between Victor’s life and his glory, I will always choose his life. And I love Amery,” her expression softened uncharacteristically for a moment, as if she were overwhelmed by the reminiscences of a cherished youth then, almost so quickly the softness might be mistaken for a passing trick of the light, hardened again, “but I would cut out his heart with my own hands,” she extended her hands for emphasis, “if it would save Victor from the cruelty of that lunatic usurper.”
“Whatever Richard tries, no kingdom army has breached the walls of Vrong Veld in four centuries, and no combined army and navy have ever taken the ducal castle. Your son is safe here. In the worst case you will have to wait here, besieged for a few years until the senile king dies naturally. He is hardly young. And Arthur is far more rational, and diplomatic, than his father, for all his prowess in war.”
“Which makes me wonder the more what Amery plans.”
“How so, lady?”
“Arthur is a great warrior and general…a natural leader of men, and only thirty six. And he is popular, both among the nobles and the commons. If Arthur’s father were…removed…by whatever means…while Arthur lives, Amery would find himself further from the throne of Ropeua, not closer. The stain of Richard’s guilt in murdering William does not pass to Arthur, and the prince’s mother was the eldest sister of the usurped king whilst Amery’s was the youngest.”
“And he has a son. The young Richard is a strong, healthy child, for all that his mother keeps him close. He is only twelve, but no heir is too young for a regency council. He reflects some of the glamour of his chivalrous father, and his mother is strong, and is also the eldest child of the usurped king William VII; she is uniter of the fractured royal house; the Assembly of Lords would not ignore her. And she would not allow her son to be passed over in the succession.”
“I also have a son, and he is strong and healthy,” she said proudly, then added abruptly, “but this is immaterial. If Amery is to take the throne, three would have to die. The king, his son, and his grandson.”
“The king will soon be dead. He is eighty five years old. Prince Arthur may be reckless with his own safety, but short of assassination….”
“And now you see what I ask.”
“The Monks of War are not assassins,” Jasper spat the last word with contempt.
The duchess nodded. “No, your order has ever been sanguinary but honourable, mercenary but loyal. So what does my husband plan?”
Jasper shrugged. “He only asks me to march on the capital. I must arrive within the week. Beyond that I cannot say.”
“Or will not?”
“Cannot. When I rode here I was hoping to discover more. It seems your husband leaves us both in the dark.”
She laughed then, a genuine, bright sound, not often heard in that chamber. “I have wasted your time. Please forgive me.”
“Your Grace, you only seek enlightenment, which all wise people do. But enlightenment is the gift of the gods. I’m no god.”
“No, but you are an honourable man, and you serve your god well, as you do Vrong Veld.” She raised her hands apologetically against his quick protest. “When I say serve I only mean you bless us with the strength of your arms. You have earned your rest, and your love awaits your embraces. By detaining you here I leave less time for you to spend with her. Deliver my love to the abbess.”
Chapter 36: Oliver: Thedra
In his brother’s compound, in a room in the castle which grimly rose among the elegant spires of baronial palaces in the north west quarter of Thedra’s outer ring like a begrimed warrior amidst elegant courtiers, Oliver stirred. A crisp mountain breeze made him shiver beneath the silk sheets. The room was hung with tapestries, telling tales of the mythic past, of gods and heroes, or of the present, of knights and demure damsels, which Oliver found as tedious as the clichés of courtly etiquette. On a pallet in one corner a page lay stretched, a thin thread of saliva hanging from the edge of his drooling, sleeping mouth to the flagstones. Beside him was a small table on which sat a jug of fine Gwendurian wine. The bed, large enough to suffice for the entire home of several North Bank beggars and their families, extended into the room from the wall furthest from the walk out balcony, and the tapestries which usually hung down its sides to cover the modesty or immodest exploits of the bed’s inhabitants had been dragged down, whether by accident or design, to lie crumpled on the floor. On one of these, where they had rolled or been thrown, were three goblets of silver, and one of dented gold, only retaining a few of the gems which had once encrusted its entire outer surface.
On the bed two female bottoms emerged from the folds, and he vaguely recalled a third. He felt around under the sheets and a female voice softly moaned. Tracing the curve of her body from her nipple, out to the side of her breast, and down to her hip, he hesitated. She protested softly. He tickled her and she giggled, grabbing his hand and shoving it between her legs, thrusting toward it. He felt the heat and soon his fingers were wet with her excitement. With his teeth he dragged the silk away from her face. Her eyes were closed with pleasure as she rubbed herself against his hand. He kissed her and she drew him on top. The other two girls now awoke and crawled toward him.
“Oh, master, do we please you so little?”
“Oh, master, let me feel your huge…appetite.”
All three giggled at that, and he spread his kisses across three faces and six breasts.
He felt eyes on him, and he remembered that there was another, one who had not touched the wine, or him. How could he have forgotten? He had made an offering at the temple of Finusthi, a very large offering, twice. He had always wanted to savour the pleasures of a nun of the goddess of love. He had suspected that their skills were exaggerated by legend, but hoped his cynicism would be proved wrong. The girl watched him, as if she had sat there patiently like that all night, but she did not seem tired. She had long, wavy, honey golden hair, which fell all the way to her hips. Her skin, where uncovered, was milky white, her complexion flawless, even more perfect than that of the most expensive courtesans he had ever fucked. And her eyes were green in hue, though he was sure they had been brown last night. He thought she had mentioned the name Rose sometime, but he expected that was as false as any of the blandishments of whores. She was clothed in diaphanous fabric, the usual habit of the nus of Love, and sat at the corner of the bed. When she had not offered herself for several hours, but talked teasingly, played his harp and recited poetry, he had tired of her reluctance and sent a servant to fetch these three whores. But her presence still affected him, and he had been unable to fully concentrate his energies on the whores. She was young, and as beautiful as the most elegant courtesans, and there was something more…something that he suspected might be magic. Whatever it was he knew he wanted her. And perhaps she knew magic which would amplify his pleasures. That would be worth the price. He grew tired of these too available whores, despite their skills and beauty.
&
nbsp; He rolled off of the whore, his cock sliding out of her, and she complained. He picked up her hand and placed it over her pubes. She pouted.
“Do I have to please myself,” she complained.
He reached for a purse on the chest by the bed and tossed her a gold coin. “And there’s more where that came from, but where will you put it?”
She pretended to check herself for a purse, then grinned as she slid it up into herself. “It’s a nice fit, but I wouldn’t want to lose it up there.”
“You’re a bad girl.” He slapped her thigh.
“What ever would you do with a good girl?” she said, looking pointedly at the nun of Finusthi.
He ignored the whore’s scorn, and writhed and wriggled his way down the bed to the corner where the nun sat. Through the diaphanous folds of her dress he could clearly see her nipples, which seemed to become erect at the touch of his eyes. He looked away, then back again, and had the same impression. It must be an illusion. Then he looked into her eyes. She watched him with that mildly amused expression which turned him on so much. How did she do it? She was only a beautiful teenage girl. He was twenty two, but had already seen much more of the world than she possibly could have, at least of its more depraved and adventurous parts. What was it? He reached out, toward her lap. She did not prevent him, but gave him that look. That look was too much. He stayed his hand. Then he reached up and touched her face instead. Her expression subtly altered, the mockery was there, but also approval, and he wanted her approval. Not the fake approval of a whore screaming that he was so big, but real approval. He really cared what she thought of him, no, what she felt for him. He had only met her last night.
He snatched his hand away. He did not love.
He sat on his knees in front of her, then extended himself, as if prostrating before an altar.
“Oh, goddess, pity a poor mortal.”
“You mock Love?” She looked at him with something like pity, and understanding.
He extended his hand toward her thigh. She watched it, not with fascination, or revulsion, but ordinary curiosity, as if to see what he would do, just as he was trying to see what she would do.
“I worship love,” he said, grinning wolfishly, but he did not complete the motion, and his hand hung there, uninvited but unrepelled.
“You believe that this is love,” she said, her eyes passing from him to the whores and back.
The whores protested. “Love is our business,” one said. The others nodded. “Love is our life,” said another, and once again the others nodded.
“I once thought so,” the nun said.
“Once thought so,” asked the first, “what, when you were twelve?”
“Younger,” the nun said, “much, much younger,” and her eyes narrowed at the whore, who, surprised by this response, fell silent. The nun smiled then, not cruelly, but compassionately, first at the whore, as if seeing pain she would not admit even to herself, then her eyes slid toward Oliver, fixing him, not judgmentally, but kindly, even affectionately. “But that is the past, and Love’s games are always played in the present.”
Oliver sensed an artificiality to that statement. Whatever this girl had lived through, they were the words of an older woman, perhaps of another nun or priestess of Love. The whore had been right, in part; this girl was very young, looking barely more than a child. Yet perhaps she had seen much in her short life. Though he was not given to pitying or falling in love with whores he could not help wondering what she had suffered, and whether he was just one in a long line of men who had and would use her for a moment, before discarding her to whatever Fate savagely decreed. He shook his head to clear it of the unwelcome moral perspective. He looked at her nipples again, fascinated despite understanding it was an illusion when they swelled as if for him, as if aching for his touch. Was the thought of her fate also magic? Was that moment of empathy her doing? He did not think so, but he would not invite it back by dwelling on its origin.
Heavy, armoured footsteps thumped up the stairs.
Oliver quickly rolled away from the nun, strategically placing a hand on one breast of each of two of the whores. “Boy,” he roared, “fill my cup.”
The boy started awake, rolled off his pallet, and knocked the table, sending the earthenware jug to the flagstones where it smashed, splashing its remaining wine over the floor. He stumbled, sleepily, yawing, wiping the drool from his mouth with his sleeve as he searched under the nearby tapestry and found a full jug, then rushed, stumbling, over to the bed. Quickly he turned the golden goblet right way up and filled it, then held it out to Oliver. Oliver motioned with his head to the whore whose breasts were free and she fetched the goblet. He turned his mouth up and she poured, as if for a decadent emperor of the once great Kemet.
At that moment his brother burst into the room, four heavily armoured bodyguards behind him. Amery strode over to the bed and glowered down at Oliver. Oliver gargled the wine and spat, as if by accident, at his feet.
“Oh, Amery. Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”
Amery, small and wiry, by contrast with his tall, muscular younger brother, looked down with small dark eyes at his recently polished, now besplattered boots, then back at Oliver, the nostrils of his large straight nose flaring. His anger was not due to the disrespect shown his shoes though. “You were commanded to attend my court this morning.”
“Oh, you know I have no head for politics, Amery. I’ll leave the intelligent stuff to you. You leave the carousing to me.”
“You mean the laziness. Where do you think this all comes from?” Amery swept an arm around the room, beetling his thick black mono-brow.
“Why, from your genius, at least what you didn’t inherit. It’s a good thing you were born before me. Gods know what a mess I’d have made of the duchy if I’d been the eldest.”
The whores tittered. Amery glared at them and they fell silent, then he noticed the nun at the end of the bed. His anger suddenly evaporated. “My lady, may War ever protect the House of Love.”
“May Love ever satisfy War,” she completed the formula.
“I see my brother has attracted better company than is his wont. I trust the abbess is well.”
“There has been much happening in the convent recently, but she did ask me to send her good wishes. She says she has not been graced by your attentions recently, and wonders whether you tire of her.”
“How could any man ever tire of her. No, no. It’s merely that the business of politics preoccupies me. I hope that my acts will always satisfy her Reverence.”
“I am sure she could never be unsatisfied by so devoted an adherent.”
Oliver observed this exchange with rising interest. He had never seen his proud, fierce brother so complaisant. To see him brought low by the sweet smile and gentle words of a mere girl was remarkable.
“I will leave my brother to the lessons of Love,” Amery said, bowing deeply, and left.
Oliver looked with fresh eyes at the nun. Perhaps she could be of use, regardless of her sexual inaction. As if reading his thoughts she got off the bed. “Perhaps I should have a word with your brother. A man of such evident devotion might understand better my dilemma.”
“Dilemma?”
“You,” she said, watching him steadily. But there was a new firmness of purpose in her eyes, as if she had had enough of waiting.
“Me, but what about me? You wouldn’t…”
She smiled, a smile that neither said she would or that she would not.
He panicked. What might Amery do? What would this girl ask him to do? Cut him off? Marry him off? He shuddered at the thought. “Why would you want to talk with him about me? He’s a boring man. Certainly I’m more interesting than boring, practical Amery. Amery’s a political animal, no sense of humour, no sense of pleasure. No willingness to be satisfied by anything I could do.”
“Which is why you do nothing?”
He grinned, then thought better of it. “My brother is a difficult man. He’s a hard enough
man to live with as it is. You wouldn’t want to make more difficulties would you? Not for your devoted servant?”
“My servant? Or yours?”
“Can’t I be both?”
She laughed, and he smiled. Then, suddenly, she stopped. “I don’t think you take the gifts of the goddess seriously enough.”
He looked back at the whores. “I don’t know a man who takes her gifts more seriously.”
“I didn’t say you don’t take her gifts. I only note you give nothing in return.”
He turned to the whores again. “Do I give nothing in return?” They crawled toward him, protesting his perversity and generosity, caressing him proprietarily. One stuck two fingers up her slit and retrieved the golden coin, then sucked it lasciviously.
“You give gold and think you’ve given much.”
“I have given whores a lot of gold,” he said, philosophically. “Of course, when you want the best…” The whores murmured their approval.
The nun ignored the display. “You have so much more of yourself to give, so much that is more of your true substance.”
“I don’t know about that. I’ve given a lot of my…substance,” The whores tittered, “here,” he touched one on her pussy, “and here,” he ran his hand over the next one’s breasts as if smearing his semen, “and here,” he slid a finger into the mouth of the third, and she grabbed his hand and pretended to fellate the finger, “even here,” he pulled the wet finger out of her mouth and slapped her bum. She slid down and gently bit his balls.
The nun gave him a look that told him she had seen and done all that and so much more and could not be impressed by his antics. “You doubt Love.”
“Me doubt love? I dedicate every moment of every day to love. Alright, every moment of every night, and most mornings.”
“And a lot of afternoons,” said one of the whores.
“Many afternoons.” He nodded. “My body aches with my devotions.”
“Your cock aches and you empty your balls into whores,” the nun retorted.
Horn of the River God: Book I of The Song of Agmar Page 35