The Crimson Outlaw

by Alex Beecroft

  This was a melancholy thought. He drew his sabre for comfort and so that he should not be caught unawares a second time and tried not to dwell on how right the robber had been. Was he being petulant, to run away from home? Childish?

  Perhaps. And now he was alone in the world, and he couldn’t afford to be a boy anymore. It was a double-edged thought, bracing and terrifying at the same time. But all the more reason not to go back until he could return as a man.

  He set his face against juvenile fancies and felt his way downhill through the tree trunks. The tall, straight firs with their sticky, lemon-scented bark gave way to more useful trees. They passed oak for acorns, beech for beech mast, and then came limping into a small slice of paradise—a cathedral made of clouds of white blossom, evanescent ghostly fair in the light of that high moon. The wind shifted and sighed in the petals with a sound as sweet and yearning as any violin.

  No, that was a violin. When he listened harder—not dismissing the music as a product of his imagination—he could hear it, fiddle and cobza and pipes with a fairy charm added by distance, tossing amongst the flowers. These must be the fruit trees of a small village. Bucin perhaps, though the path he knew to Bucin went in a great sweep to the west, rather than this shortcut.

  “Come now, come on . . .” Boris’s determination had begun to flag. He was tugging rebelliously on the leading rein, jibbing at the pain in his foot. “You will have hay and oats and a warm stable instead, and I . . .” The prospect brought his spirits leaping back up as though a dry faggot had been tossed on a fire. “I will have something to eat.”

  It turned out just as he said. A few more yards brought them out from under the trees, and it was Bucin, snug in its arrowhead of land between two streams, the church at the point, the widening land scattered with wooden houses whose red-painted beams had been lavishly carved and whose plastered walls were adorned all over with stucco-work in the shape of birds and leaves and monsters. Lamps, hung in the eaves of the houses, gave a haze of golden brown to the whole scene, picking out vivid orange nasturtiums and pink roses, the shaggy white and purple flowers of herbs in the gardens.

  Though the night had well set in, the village hall was still alive, sending pulses of light into the darkness as its door opened and closed. Half-drunk young men were coming and going, shouting to their friends, exchanging banter and innuendo with the girls before their mothers could put an end to it with scorn.

  Vali passed the long, thin strips of the fields. When he stepped onto the path just outside the first house, he saw an old couple standing by their garden gate. The man had been having a quiet smoke in the mild spring weather, his wife gathering woollen thread off a niddy noddy and rolling it into a ball. She put it down at once at the sight of Vali and threw open the gate with an eagerness that managed to make him feel as if he were a long-lost relative being welcomed home.

  “Are you lost, sir? And your horse lame? Come in. Come in and have something to eat, and Ilie will run for Nicolae, the horse doctor. Nicolae is bound to be at the village hall, it won’t take long at all.”

  Vali found himself being ushered into the moonlit garden, while the old man took Boris’s rein and led him round to the back. Ilie limped as much as the horse, leaning on a twisted shepherd’s stick as he hobbled, every second step making his pipe flare red. “There’s a warm spot opened in the woodpile, sir,” he said. “This good lad will be well enough there. I’ll bring him some mash by and by.”

  Forming a more accurate opinion of the probabilities of Ilie running anywhere, Vali beamed at them both. Such honest country people. His people. They made him proud. “I confess I am starving. But I was on the way to the hall myself, so if you could tell me what the horse doctor looks like, I’ll get him myself when I’ve eaten.”

  In the clean room of the house—the place where guests were received and the family only entered for marriages and deaths—he sat in splendour, admiring the crisp white walls and the hanging textiles striped with red, black, and gold. A rail of dark wood supported a dozen brightly painted plates. A bench against the wall was covered in white cushions smothered in riotous black and red roses. He was very careful not to drop potato soup or mamaliga on the homemade rugs, and not just because it was so good he didn’t want to waste a drop.

  As he ate, warmth, food, and security ganged up on the little moral fibre he had left. The relief of all three suggested he should let go all his precautions, lie down on that inviting bench, cover himself with the rugs from the floor, and sleep. He had not felt his injuries while he was fighting for his life, but they too responded to the safety by waking up in a chorus of dull murmurs and telling him they were still there, and no better for being thrown from a horse.

  The woman’s voice—he still didn’t know her name—drifted in from the kitchen, pitched so low he might not have heard it if he hadn’t been nodding over his bowl in that strange stage between sleep and waking where any noise could set his heart athunder. “Ilie, he’s no older than Gabi. If he’s leaving his family behind, there surely must be some terrible reason for it.”

  The sound of a pipe being pulled was the sound of consideration. “I went to the castle once, you know.”

  “I know.” He could almost hear the roll of eyes. “You’ve told me enough. Up there to pollard their trees, wasn’t it? The year before you fell.”

  “Hmm,” and another puff. Vali rose and sidled towards the kitchen door as silently as he could. “It is Wadim’s boy, I’m sure of it.”

  “Then all the more reason to say nothing.”

  One day he would come back, he decided, and cover the woman’s spread head scarf with gold. And possibly lame the old man’s other leg, because he carried on, imperturbable and patient. “Georghe’s daughter was going by as we brought the boy in. And all the young girls from the north fields. And Vasile the potter. They’ll tell everyone at the dance, and someone at the dance will tell Wadim—if he doesn’t already know.”

  “It shouldn’t be us.” She sounded downcast now, reluctantly persuaded, her voice accompanied by the sound of lids firmly being put down on pots.

  “Crina, if we tell him, he may spare Gabi and the baby from his reprisals. If we don’t tell him, someone else will, and then where will our daughter be, and our grandson?”

  “Did you see the boy’s bruises?”

  Ilie sighed. “It isn’t for us to interfere.”

  Back in the clean room, Vali put his bowl down, tried to shake the sleep out of his head. The truth was that the old man was right. He had left the grating in the Fountain Court wide open. Even if none of the grooms noticed a missing horse tonight, someone would notice the broken bars tomorrow. When the guard came to give Doina her food, he would notice he was one prisoner down. It was only a matter of time before Wadim came to drag Vali back to whatever punishment awaited him this time.

  He bent through into the kitchen—a much more homely room, warm and steamy from the linens boiling on the stove. “Thank you for your hospitality. If I leave you this—” He pried one of the decorative plaques from his wide belt and held it out. “—could I stable my horse here until he gets better? I’ll run down myself and send the horse doctor up to you.”

  They both looked at him with camel-like faces of shame, and the woman pushed the silver square back at him. “It’s too much, sir. We’ll be glad to look after him until you come back. You can pay us what you think is right then.”

  They shook on it, and Vali left them waving him on his way with the expressions of those who are late to their own funeral.

  “I’m looking for Nicolae, the horse doctor?”

  As soon as the door opened wide enough to let him inside, he was surrounded. Girls in long red skirts and black-and-white waistcoats nipped tight over big-sleeved blouses were fingering the silk of his jacket with bright-eyed awe. A dozen coats were opened, and ploughboys and shepherds handed him flasks of home-distilled tuica. Not wanting to be rude, he tossed the spirits back as fast as they came—fiery as if the
plums from which it was distilled had a secret heart of evil and he was tasting the road to hell.

  He coughed, wiped at streaming eyes, and found himself being dragged out into the centre of the floor by a tall girl with hair the colour of freshly sawn oak. The grandmothers on their bench, the fathers by the bar, the girls on one side of the room, and the boys on another all pretended they were not watching, but Vali could feel the eyes on him nevertheless. This was a test.

  He let his shoulders fall back and his limbs loosen. The girl twirled in place, her skirt spreading out and lifting with the motion to reveal shapely legs. She looked at him challengingly, and, with a cocky smile, he launched himself into the feciorească, clicking his heels and leaping high, stamping and slapping his thighs to show off the strength of his legs, the lightness and wildness of his frame.

  At the second leap, the door opened behind his partner, and a man came in who had to bow to fit his head beneath the frame. A giant of a man, made bigger by a sheepskin coat turned skin-side out. The skin had been dyed crimson and covered with swirls of indigo embroidery. It made his shoulders and his arms look huge, but he wore it lightly, stopping just inside the door and raking Vali with a long, hot piercing look. His eyes were a blue so deep they almost matched the stitching on his coat.

  Vali felt the gaze all over him like the tingling of nettles, and as he was already dancing a dance designed to show off a man’s beauty and vigour, he doubled his efforts. The girl grinned, and in the crowd three voices called out encouragement, but Vali didn’t stop until he had seen the giant’s mouth turn up slightly at one corner. Then he took the girl’s hand and led her into a couple dance, floating slightly on the knowledge that every time he glanced over, those dark blue eyes would be fixed on him.

  After far too long, the dance came to an end. The musicians—Lautari gypsies in long coats, with rosin from their bows whitening their splendid moustaches—took a brief gulp of their drinks. Vali lead the girl back to the girls’ side, parted with a bow, and was just—finally!—making his way over to investigate the little half smile on the big man’s face, when an unwelcome toper with a mild look and a big nose barged into his way.

  “Well danced indeed, sir. I am Nicolae, the horse doctor. What can I do for you?”

  Damn. He looked over Nicolae’s shoulder, saw that his predicament had only widened the stranger’s smile. Someone had found a table for the man, and even now there was a steady stream of visitors to it, shaking hands, leaving a tot, leaning down to whisper a word or two and get an answer, leaving with thanks.

  It’s as though he’s a boyar, holding court with these people as his petitioners. Vali dragged his gaze back to the broken blood vessels on the end of the horse doctor’s nose. “I . . . Um. Yes. My horse was lamed by bandits on the path. He’s at the house of Ilie and Crina up by the orchard. Would you go and look at him, please? And take this in payment both for his treatment and his board.”

  Nicolae did not share the old couple’s reluctance to accept silver. He snatched the belt plaque from Vali’s fingers so fast it made them sting. “Of course. At once.”

  But he was at least as good as his word, turning to leave, letting Vali make his own visit to the stranger’s throne. Not sure if he was a supplicant or a challenger.

  As he approached, the big man took off his hat. His shaggy hair was chestnut brown, full of little licks of fire red, copper red, even crimson. His brows were dark and raised in approval. A generous mouth stretched his amused smile into smugness. Above strong cheekbones, his eyes snapped, full of boldness and challenge and unmistakeable want.

  The pull of it brought heat welling beneath the surface of Vali’s skin. Made him breathe hard and wipe his hot hands on his flanks, glad for the long fall of his untucked shirt over his lap. The man was important in some way and could undoubtedly get away with a great deal. Vali was more important, but could not, not if his father ever—

  Thoughts of his father—all thoughts, in fact—fled from his mind as the man took hold of his hand and pulled him down to a seat. Vali had been dancing, but the red-haired man’s touch was still scorching against his skin. He’d be a furnace under the jacket. Vali—who had done a great deal of fantasising in his life and very little acting on it—shocked himself by licking his lips and leaning forwards to place an open hand over the man’s heart. His shirt was unlaced, tucked into a great belt of stiff blue leather, and Vali’s thumb slipped beneath the collar. Hot indeed, every bit as hot as he had hoped.

  He tried to straighten, draw away, but a big hand came down on the nape of his neck and effortlessly held him in place. “I’m Mihai Roșcat. Normally I’d want an introduction before we went on to fondling, but in your case, I’m willing to make an exception.”

  Vali’s stomach twisted half pleasurably and half with fright. He’d been bold as a hero in the stories, but life didn’t necessarily work that way, and this hand on his flesh was real. It was all very well to dream in the safety of his own bed, but he had never supposed it would go any further than that. Could it really happen in real life? Did he want it to? What if Mihai was joking? Was he setting himself up for humiliation? Punishment? Mihai’s face was elegantly drawn, with those high cheekbones and a powerful, square chin, but it had a stone-like quality that said he was not a man to be trifled with.

  Yet the hand on the back of Vali’s neck was spreading such a warmth through him. If he had been an elf, he would have made himself small so he could climb up into it and feel the burning over every inch of his skin. Involuntarily, he pushed up a little into the grasp, and Mihai responded by sliding his hand firmly, caressingly down the side of Vali’s throat and settling it on his shoulder beneath his shirt. As a gesture it was unmistakeable, a clear and glowing yes.

  “You know who I am?” Vali squeaked, frowning at his voice’s betrayal. He was supposed to sound confident, urbane, a man of the world. Not like some newly hatched chick imprinting on its mother.

  “I know what you are.” Mihai’s smile said he was charmed, and though Vali would rather have been seen as impressive than adorable, it still brought a fizz of joy to his veins, made his balls clench up in anticipation and his prick leap. Parts of him, at least, did not acknowledge the other parts’ doubts.

  “And what’s that?”

  Mihai pushed aside Vali’s collar, obviously intending to slide his hand further in, but his face cleared and hardened at what he saw there. He leaned closer, the drive of his body pushing the tabletop into Vali’s stomach. Not painfully, but firmly enough to give some idea of Mihai’s strength if he chose to use it. Oh, he’d break me. Vali’s eyes glazed over at the roll of sweet anticipation that came over him at the thought. After all, why deny yourself? If it is worse than you’ve hoped, you need not do it twice. And if he laughs, you are leaving in the morning, never to see him again.

  But Mihai’s thoughts had gone in a different direction. “These are bruises. All around your neck like a circlet of storms.”

  Vali didn’t need to be told that. The blood was so close to the surface there, he could feel every callus on Mihai’s hands. Even this gentle pressure made the flesh throb with a deep, delicious ache.

  “A slave collar? Or a noose? Not hands—it’s grazed too. This was done by something hard.”

  “Perhaps that’s what I am, then.” Vali reached up and pressed Mihai’s hands a little more firmly into the tender flesh, his mouth falling open at the wave of pleasure and pain that made him feel vividly alive and wanting more. “A runaway slave.”

  The lazy, confident warmth returned to Mihai’s gaze. He gave a sceptical snort at Vali’s words, pulled his hands away, and rose. Vali had time for a stab of disappointment before Mihai was around the table and helping him to his feet. And that was even better because he could stagger sideways, knock his shoulder against Mihai’s chest, and feel firm muscle hot as fire under a single layer of white linen shirt. He wanted to unbuckle the wide belt and push the shirt up and feel the skin with his hands, but he had enough sens
e not to try it in the middle of the village hall.

  “When two people say you’re drunk,” Mihai observed, undoubtedly for the sake of the audience, “it’s time to go to bed. Come on.”

  On the pretext of helping Vali to walk, he wound his arm around Vali’s waist and hung Vali’s arm over his shoulder, and they shuffled together towards the door, Vali playing his part by moulding himself bonelessly to every part of Mihai he could touch and smiling foolishly. Oh lord, had the talking finished already? Was this the part where Mihai supported him all the way to the nearest hayloft and he found out how accurate his dreams had been?

  He hoped so, and so he was disappointed when they only went as far as the colonnade that wound around the south side of the hall. Used in the daytime when the sun shone fully into it, during the night it was unoccupied and dark, facing the empty hills rather than the houses. At the far end, a mess of junk wood had been stacked—two trestle tables without their legs, a green painted door warped by water into a spiral shape that never could have shut.

  Mihai pushed Vali into the gap behind the stack, where they were no longer visible from the door. His own bulk filled the little space almost to completion as he leaned back against the wall and tugged Vali towards him. Vali opened the big shaggy coat and stepped into it, pushing himself flush against Mihai and letting out a long, heartfelt sigh. “I’ve wanted to do that since I saw you.”

  Over the landscape beyond the balcony, a round moon was shining bright enough to pick out Mihai’s expression with blue-silver light. The heat had returned to it, but something else was absent. Vali chased after the memory of it, just had time to pin it down as contempt and had thought to protest, when Mihai’s arms were around him. A great hand slid down his backbone and cupped his arse, urging him even closer with a strength he could not resist. He swayed forwards, parting his knees so Mihai could push his massive thigh between Vali’s legs, and at the welcome hardness against his prick all thoughts and suspicions fled his mind together.