The Red King

  He had no idea what time it was, how long he had been here. Surely an entire day had passed, for there had been other meals and lengthy conversations. He had not been allowed to sleep, not permitted to leave the rooms save to visit the bathing chamber with Maarten. There Andrew had been scrubbed in steaming water until his skin was pink and sore, and all the hair from his neck down had been removed with oil and a small curved blade. Finally an exotic smelling unguent had been rubbed into his flesh. Maarten had observed it all with glittering eyes, touching with propriety, running his fingers across the smoothness at the back of Andrew’s thighs while he was still spread on the table...but he had not taken Andrew again.

  He was grateful for the reprieve, for he had bled enough to frighten himself. Maarten had been so pleased to see the streaks of red on his cock when he’d set Andrew from him that he’d cooed and cuddled Andrew, pet him like a child afterwards. He’d run his fingers up and down the crevice of Andrew’s bottom, smiling each time Andrew winced and expressing great delight at the feel of his seed leaking from the torn flesh.

  Andrew’s nerves were raw and spent from his utter exhaustion and Maarten’s smothering presence. He hurt, even as he sat on the plush cushion Maarten had fetched for him. The man sat beside him at this lavish setting, wearing only his fur robe. He leaned close, hovering over Andrew’s shoulder at every moment. He behaved as a besotted bridegroom; kissing Andrew’s hair, his cheek, even fingers that were brought from Andrew’s lap. “You are so silent, lille due,” Maarten said, directly in his ear. “What could you be thinking?”

  Andrew had been trying not to think, at all. Now prompted, he turned his head to speak, only to find his mouth covered and filled with Maarten’s tongue. He tried to twist away but one large hand settled at the back of his head and pressed him closer. The heat, his fatigue, and the icy wane of his confidence made him dizzy. He felt his breaths coming faster, too fast, and then he had to swallow back his sickness. His fingers rose to Maarten’s cheeks, digging and pressing. He was released.

  “My Lord, please, some air. I need fresh air,” he said in a rush, forcing his eyes open to meet Maarten’s curious stare. There was a moment of suspicion, but Andrew let his fingertips trace over the man’s lips and it faded.

  “Fresh air, of course,” Maarten responded, a smile stealing across his face. He pushed his chair back and extended a hand. Andrew took it and accepted the assistance, though as soon as he was on his feet he was swept up against the man’s chest. “We shall have a walk and I will show you my castle, yes?”

  Nodding, Andrew gave him a small smile and pushed away from him. “I would like that, thank you.”

  Maarten pulled him back, sinking his fingers into the curve of Andrew’s bottom and holding him tightly. He dug until Andrew hissed and jerked in his grasp. “Lovely,” he whispered and bent to take Andrew’s mouth once more. Andrew was so grateful for the interrupting knock on the chamber door he went weak. If Maarten had not been holding him, his legs would not have supported his weight.

  “My lord, Salvatore is here,” the servant, Laurent, called through the wood.

  Maarten lifted his head, hovering over Andrew’s lips. “Hmm, Salvatore,” he murmured, and Andrew felt him smile. “Yes, yes, this is lovely.” He straightened and said over his shoulder. “I will see him in my reception room.”

  Then he released Andrew and took his hand, placing it on his arm. As he was led, Andrew asked, “My lord, should not I remain here, in your private quarters?”

  “I wish you to be near to me,” Maarten said, opening the barred door and allowing Andrew to go through first.

  Andrew was bid to stand beside the large chair, to Maarten’s left. He was so tired his legs shook. He leaned against it, throwing one arm over the high back to support himself. His fingers grazed Maarten’s hair and the man gave him a slow, sensual smile to display his pleasure. Andrew did not return it, but Maarten seemed pleased with his bowed head and coy demeanor.

  After several moments the large doors at the opposite end of the room swung open. Laurent stepped aside and an entourage of five men entered the room. Their leader was a short, plump man in long white robes. His shoulders were covered in a black stole, his head with a wide brimmed, flat black hat. The chain around his neck looked heavy, as did the cross at his chest. The four behind him were liveried guards, clad in bright red. Andrew felt bathed in ice.

  The man was an Inquisitor; with him was a royal Spanish Guard.

  “Salvatore, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Maarten asked his voice pleasant, polite.

  “Our contract has yet to be fulfilled,” Salvatore said. His voice was high-pitched, his tone disdainful.

  “I do not recall a contract with you. Of what do you speak?”

  Salvatore moved closer. “You know very well of what I speak, de Worrt. Your raiders let one live.”

  “One what? Really, signore, specificities, please.”

  Andrew angled himself away from Salvatore, ducking his head to hide his face, and moved closer to Maarten. For his evil, no matter how great, could not compare with what lay at the Inquisitor’s fingertips.

  “One of the brothers, you imbecile,” the man hissed. “If one still lives there is the chance that the machinations will be known.”

  Maarten took Andrew’s hand, drew it down to his mouth. His eyes rested on Andrew as he spoke. “It was only a handful of men, Salvatore, ten at the most. I assure you, we killed them all, per your instruction.”

  Andrew saw the truth of it in Maarten’s face.

  “Instruction?” Andrew whispered. Maarten’s smile was slow and sensual.

  “There was a boy, not yet one of the brothers. I was told he was left alive and brought to you,” Salvatore said, stridently.

  “He was, but I did not receive him. He was stolen from me, by pirates, no less.” Maarten rubbed the backs of Andrew’s fingers along his jaw. His eyes were bright with what looked like…glee.

  “I knew the men were yours,” Andrew murmured, only loud enough for Maarten’s ears. There was a shifting in his perception, as though a stalled gear was slipping into place.

  Kissing his fingers once more, Maarten said, “My men did what you paid for, Salvatore. They met the ship and took it.”

  “This boy must be found! There can be no trace of our involvement!”

  Andrew’s vision blurred. The room spun dangerously around him before his anger seized his spirit and held it firm. He yanked his hand away from Maarten and turned to face the Inquisitor. “Your involvement? You…you caused this? You stole my family? My life?”

  Salvatore stared at him and from the dais behind him, Maarten laughed louder. “Salvatore was given a task, lille due. Root out the pagans, the unrepentant, but do not call down the council. Eliminate them quietly, he was told. Well, one can hardly blame the circumstances; they were holy men on a pilgrimage. Any number of tragedies could have befallen them.”

  “Pilgrimage,” Andrew repeated, staring with growing horror at the Inquisitor. “You sent us there? You sent the letter?”

  “You said you did not have him!” Salvatore ignored Andrew entirely, pushing past him to approach Maarten.

  “I did not, at that time.” Maarten was still calm, though his amusement shone in his eyes. “Do you wish to kill him? He stands before you, unarmed. Go ahead, I will not stop you.”

  Andrew acted before anyone could move. He leapt at the soldier nearest him, drawing the man’s sword from its scabbard and holding it with a steady hand. “You will not touch me!” he snarled, retreating until his back touched the wall. “Why? Why would you…we were so few, so simple. We paid our tithe and we asked for nothing!” He was ice cold with fury, his body tense and aching.

  “Your abbot was a converso and a heretic, and, now that I see you, doubtless a sodomite, as well” Salvatore said his voice both pious and poisoned.

  “Father Armand treated me as a son! He treated everyone with equal and unending love! He was a Godly man, a penitent man! He d
id nothing to warrant your contempt!” Andrew shouted. “If you had such doubts, why not call the council? Why perpetrate this falsehood?”

  “There is too much conflict in your country. The tribunal saw fit to leave the clearing of your abbey to me,” Salvatore answered, “and I was commended for my thoroughness.”

  “But why? Our holdings were small; we had nothing. Why not leave us for the Covenanters?”

  “You ignorant child! Your holdings were the fortune of Armand Tedisci, merchant of Bursa and a convert. He left his wealth in the hands of the Marrano house, not to be touched until his death.”

  Andrew was stunned. This part of Father Armand’s life was unknown to him; a history neither shared nor requested, but he knew his mentor’s heart. The abbot had been simple and spare; nothing of luxury or undue comfort ever touched his life while he cared for spiritual needs. Or raised a son. “He left that behind. He did not want it.”

  “It was to fall to the brothers upon his end, to maintain that ridiculous pile of rocks he called an abbey. It belongs to the Church and I—we would have it, use it to glorify God,” Salvatore crossed himself.

  Andrew felt sick. His voice was raspy, thick with misery. “All of this, the needless deaths of good men, the ship’s crew and captain, his wife…all of them dead because you wanted his coin?”

  “Coin, my dove, is the bedrock of our civilization,” Maarten said, rising from his throne. “You yourself wished for a spring, unending and prosperous. Now you have it, with me.”

  “You seem to have found your way, none the worse for wear,” Salvatore mused and he smiled, his eyes travelling the length of Andrew’s body. He took a step closer.

  Andrew slashed the air before him. “Aye! As if I had a choice. As if I had any other path to follow!”

  The soldiers closed in around Salvatore, belatedly, but he waved them away. He was appraising Andrew, lingering on his face, on the opulence of his robe and the form beneath it. “There’s no call for violence, boy. You need not defend your actions, for your fear must have been great.”

  “My actions are not under scrutiny here. You are the root of every evil that has befallen me and I will not suffer your judgment,” Andrew said, his teeth clenched so tightly they hurt.

  Salvatore moved closer still, within range of Andrew’s lunge. “I do not judge, I offer. I have some power; I could give you vows. You could come with me and know such luxuries as you could never dream of.”

  Andrew laughed, his bitterness made the sound hard, hateful. “I have luxuries here. I have everything I want, right here.”

  “You seek riches? Surely you know the riches that would await you,” Salvatore continued. He was smiling, the same lecherous, leering grin that he had seen on Acklie’s face, on Maarten’s. “Or, if you have already become accustomed to the pleasures of the flesh, why, those await you, as well. We are not without our…amusements.”

  Andrew lifted the sword and pointed it straight at Salvatore’s throat. “Can you give me back my life? My innocence?” he asked. He swiped the tip across the man’s chin, leaving a thin line of blood. “My ignorance? For to go with you that is what I would require. Ignorance of your vileness and your hypocrisy.” Ignorance of joy, his mind added. Ignorance of Rory.

  Maarten was beside him, then, laughing as he took the sword from Andrew’s hand. “My dove has a taste for blood, signore. Do not doubt that I have just spared you another wound.” He tossed the sword away, carelessly, and wrapped one arm around Andrew’s waist. “Tell them again, lille due. Tell them you are with me.”

  Reaching up to tangle his fingers in Maarten’s hair, Andrew pulled him down into an impassioned kiss. When he withdrew, Maarten was smiling, eyes dark and hungry. Andrew turned back to the Inquisitor and spat at his feet. “Go back to your council or go to Hell, for they are one and the same, and you…you are nothing more than the Devil’s lackey.”

  Salvatore’s face was red. “I will go to the council. I will tell them of your indulgence and your heresy and they will come for you. Then we shall see if you are still spitting, you filthy whore.”

  Maarten laughed, loud and long. “Go then! And with my…blessing…” He nodded to the stern and quiet Laurent. The man’s lips thinned, but he nodded back and came forward to lead the group away. “Take care that no calamity should end your journey...” Maarten added, his arms tightening around Andrew’s waist, “prematurely, signore.”

  Laurent silently glared at the men and extended on arm towards the door.

  “This is not over, de Worrt. I will be back with the council’s acknowledgment. Enjoy your whore while you can,” Salvatore sneered. He nodded to his guard and together they left the room.

  Sliding his hands down Andrew’s chest, stopping when he came to the dip of pubis and bone, Maarten breathed, “My whore.”

  Andrew shuddered, pain, anger and fear still stirring his blood.

  “Are you my whore, Andrew?”

  Swallowing thickly, Andrew whispered, “I am whatever you wish me to be, my lord.”

  He felt Maarten’s laugh against his back. “Say it.”

  The trembling would not stop. Andrew opened his mouth to speak, but the words did not come. When Maarten’s hands lowered to cup his cock, he gasped.

  “Say it,” the man said again, gripping tighter.

  “I am…” Andrew closed his eyes against their sting, “your whore.”

  Maarten made a rumbling noise in his chest. “Yes, you are, and I have left you unattended for too long.”

  Maarten opened the robe and shoved it off of Andrew’s shoulders, his hands moving fast and ruthless over the exposed flesh. “My lord! Fresh air! You promised—ah!” Andrew protested until Maarten’s teeth closed on his neck. Fingers found the cleft of his ass and probed, seeking, entering. Andrew cried out again and willed himself not to struggle. He was crushed to Maarten’s chest as those fingers twisted inside him, finding the most pleasurable of angles and digging in with merciless attention.

  Moaning, opening unwillingly but completely, Andrew clasped his hands around Maarten’s neck and thrust his hardening cock against one steely thigh. Maarten was laughing again. “Say it, my dove, once more.”

  Heat spread through Andrew’s body, whether it was want or shame did not matter. He relented and let the pleasure take him again. He closed his eyes and cast his thoughts back to the beach; the feel of the sun, the taste of salt on his lips. The memory of Rory’s hands on him helped, but it hurt, too, and made his heart stutter in his chest. His mortification was quickly drowned in the sensual feel of the heavy velvet and fur of Maarten’s robe, the strength in the man’s hands and arms, even the smell of sweat and oil. He pushed back on Maarten’s fingers, voice broken and trembling as he said, “Your whore, my lord. I am your whore.”

  Maarten’s knowledge was vast, his skills sharpened over years and countless victims, and he was able to bring Andrew to a shattering climax easily, quickly. He rode it out with his head flung back and mouth open, the beau ideal of wanton pleasure. Maarten took the offering and his teeth cut into Andrew’s lip. He forced another finger into Andrew and growled when Andrew began to struggle. “You are my whore and I would see you come again. As many times as I wish it, Andrew.”

  With that Andrew was lifted and carried to one of the long tables. He was flipped onto his stomach and held at the neck with one strong hand while the other continued its torment. It was only after the third time, when Andrew was weeping from the unending pressure and blossoming pain that he finally begged for an end. “Please stop…my lord, please,” he cried, unable to bear it further.

  “Not yet. No, there is more.” Maarten’s voice was manic and strident.

  “No! No, there isn’t! It hurts! It hurts, please stop!” Andrew wept.

  “Very well.” Maarten pulled his hand away and Andrew took a shaky breath only to exhale it as a shout when the man’s cock plowed into him.

  “No!” Andrew cried.

  The hand at his neck moved to grip th
e hair at the top of his head and it pulled, arching Andrew up from the table as Maarten thrust. “Ah…yes, my dove. Scream for me,” Maarten commanded.

  Andrew did. Endlessly.

  ***

  There was a touch, light and careful, but it still hurt.

  Andrew moaned. He tried to roll away, mind solely on escaping the pain.

  “Quiet, boy, and be still.”

  Laurent’s voice was ice, not a drop of warmth colored his words. Andrew struggled up from darkness to find himself face down in a pile of furs. He whimpered as that touch dipped into his torn and aching body, only realizing that the worst of the pain was easing as parts of him went blessedly numb. There were still deeper places inside that throbbed and cramped and could not be soothed, but any relief was welcome. A warm, dry cloth was fit up against his wounded flesh and Laurent said, “Roll over.”

  It took more effort than Andrew would have imagined. His arms and shoulders were stiff and sore, as was his middle; he felt torn, all over, as if he had been on the rack. He gasped when his cock rubbed across the furs, too tender for even their softness. He remembered Maarten’s ceaseless attentions; fingers coaxing, forcing more and more from him even when he had nothing more to spill but tears.

  A cup was pressed to his mouth and he hissed when the liquid spilled across his the torn flesh of his lips. “Drink it, boy.”

  Swallowing was little better, for the back of his throat felt battered and scraped raw and the taste was sharp and stringent.

  “Drink it all.”

  Andrew would have wept from the pain of it, had he any tears left.

  He lie unmoving, staring up at the timber of the ceiling, as Laurent daubed ointment on first the raw skin of his cock, a purpling and puffy bite mark on the inside of his arm, and then the three gouges that ran from his left shoulder down to dip of his hipbone. He had a vague memory of Maarten scratching his nails down Andrew’s chest, sucking the fingertips clean and…kissing him, forcing his own flesh and blood upon him. He covered his mouth with his hand and looked at Laurent, the intent clear in his eyes.