The Red King

  “In the pail, if you please,” was all the man said.

  Andrew rolled over to heave drink and bile into the wooden bucket beside the bed. He was surprised to find he did have tears left, after all.

  “Now I have to get you another cup. Stay here,” Laurent sighed, as if this was merely an inconvenience.

  Trembling, panting, Andrew fell once more onto his back. “Oh, God,” he whispered, lips quivering. “Oh, God, please, help me. I was wrong. I was wrong.”

  He heard Laurent’s footsteps and went silent. “Drink it all. It will take away the worst of it.”

  Andrew shook his head. “Not…laudanum. It makes me ill.” His words were so quiet, his throat burning so badly that he was surprised to hear them at all.

  “It isn’t laudanum. Drink it,”

  So he did, and let Laurent continue his ministrations. He was bandaged and wrapped with cold efficiency. When Laurent was finished, he looked up at the man and asked, “Where is he?”

  Laurent covered him with a heavy blanket. “He is otherwise occupied. Rest while you can.”

  There was an easing in his muscles, soothing away his pain and giving everything he saw a soft, unfocused appearance. “Thank you, Laurent,” he whispered, blinking against the blurriness.

  The man frowned at him and left. Andrew heard the door close just as he was pulled into the darkness once again. He dreamed of sunshine and the smell of the ocean, seeming so real he expected the brightness to blind him when he opened his eyes.

  Instead, he found himself in Maarten’s bed, smothered in furs and blankets. The room was lit by the fire but still dark; shadowed and hazy. He couldn’t find edges or corners, no matter what his eyes sought. Everything was unfocused and soft. Still without a time piece or even light through a window, Andrew had no measure of how long he’d slept. That his bladder burned was his only clue. Maarten was still absent and he sent up a silent prayer of thanks for that.

  The concoction Laurent had given him kept the worst of his pain away, as promised. It also made him feel strangely light, as though he were floating above the ground instead of walking solidly upon it. It made finding the waste bucket difficult and using it harder still. He managed, though, and did not upset it even when he lost his balance. For an absurd moment, he was ridiculously proud of himself and felt like laughing…but the door behind him opened before it could bubble forth. Andrew turned to see a figure filling the empty space.

  “Ah,” Maarten said as he entered. “You’re awake. Lovely.”

  The man moved towards him and Andrew retreated, stumbled and fell against the wall.

  “My dove, min lille due, will you fly from me?” Maarten loomed in his vision, raising something dark and heavy before him. Andrew’s hands flew up to stop him, but they found only the plush, warm robe he’d been wrapped in before. Maarten draped it over his shoulders and helped him find the sleeves, making soothing, comforting sounds as closed it around his body. “You tremble at my touch, Andrew. Do you know how much that pleases me?”

  Andrew was shaking so hard he could barely stand. He felt it from his scalp to the soles of his feet. Maarten’s hands were stroking him through the velvet, up and over and back down, from shoulders to hips. Andrew’s knees gave way and Maarten caught him.

  “No, no…” was all he could say, all he could think, as he was lifted.

  “Shhh,” was all the man said as he cradled Andrew against his chest.

  He was carried like a child through the sitting room, past the still laden dining table and into the reception room. Maarten held him tightly and whispered to him as they exited into the hall.

  “You feel weak, ja? Out of strength and out of control, yes, Andrew?” He did not wait for a response. “I will help you.”

  The words were spoken softly, almost sweetly, and the power in Maarten’s arms was muted and comforting instead of hurting. He sighed and felt more than heard a throaty sound of approval against his cheek. Andrew huddled in his robe, feeling the sway of the man’s walk and drifting a bit with his head resting on Maarten’s shoulder. The movement was akin to the rocking of a ship and the thought stirred such terrible longing in him that he wept. Maarten only gave that same rumbling favor as he cried.

  Andrew was so lost in his misery that he was not aware of their passage. He was set on his feet once more in another room, no larger than the smallest cell in the abbey. There were candles stuck haphazardly around the room on old stools and some bricks that thrust from the walls. A brazier laden with white hot coals stood in the center and cast so much heat that Andrew began to sweat almost instantly. When Maarten released him, he swayed, dangerously close to a faint.

  “None of that, now,” Maarten teased, wrapping his arms around Andrew from behind. He held Andrew steady, speaking in that same gentle tone. “I give you this, Andrew. See?” and he turned them both to face the far wall.

  Salvatore was shackled there, hanging by his wrists by chains bolted into the stone. The man was unconscious, bloody about his nose and mouth and wore only the tattered remains of his white robe. Andrew tried to back away but could only press himself into Maarten. He turned his head, closing his eyes tight.

  Maarten leaned down to speak in his ear. “This man, this wicked man, is the cause of all your pain.”

  Salvatore’s eyes fluttered and he moaned. Andrew pressed harder against Maarten’s mass, trying to turn away. He did not want to be here. He didn’t want to see.

  “If not for this man you would still be untouched, unclaimed. You would still be clean.” Maarten shuffled them both closer. “You would have never known the violence of men or the agony of loss.”

  “Please, my lord…” Andrew began, but Salvatore woke.

  At the sight of them before him, the Inquisitor bared his teeth. “You filth!” he spat from bleeding lips. “I will have you both! I will piss upon your roasting flesh, de Worrt! I will have you flayed alive!”

  Maarten laughed, his breath stirring Andrew’s hair.

  “And you,” Salvatore continued, voice lower and eyes on Andrew now, “you will be chained and flogged and all manner of men will have you. We will set the dogs upon you, the mules, the steeds in the stables. You will be nothing but blood and shit, a stain to be washed away.”

  The words did not fully penetrate the stupor still holding Andrew’s mind, but the venom in them did. He was confused and frightened and looked up at Maarten. “My lord…why…”

  “Extract your vengeance, lille due. Taste his blood,” Maarten said, guiding him now towards the brazier. There were iron rods sticking out of the side, their ends bound in leather, waiting. “Take this,” he said, his voice gentle as he wrapped Andrew’s fingers around the rod and pulled it free. “Take it and use it.”

  Andrew looked at the glowing iron in his hand. He did not want this. He did not. He shook his head.

  Maarten’s mouth ghosted down his neck. His lips were warm and wet, his teeth sharp but merely scraping his skin. It felt good. “Your anger will empower you. Find it. Look to your life, your memories, and seek that which still bleeds your soul.”

  One hand slipped into his robe and palmed his chest. Fingers deftly caressed and teased him, closed on his nipple to torment. Eyes still on the iron, Andrew made a soft sound as the hand travelled lower. The tenderness was abated, by both the ointment and by Maarten’s knowing hand.

  “Hurry, while the iron is hot.”

  Salvatore was still spitting his threats, listing increasingly vile and hellish tortures they would be subjected to, but Andrew could barely hear them. His mind was numb and his blood was roaring in his ears. The words seemed to come at him from far away. Maarten’s careful coaxing had pushed past the pain and reawakened his pleasure. He was guided back to the Inquisitor, his body trembling and pliant as it was set before the bound man.

  “Do it, Andrew,” Maarten whispered, mouthing at his ear and squeezing and pulling Andrew’s cock until it surged against his palm.

  Andrew was weak, but he str
uggled, even so. “No.”

  “Yessss….” Maarten’s hand twisted.

  “No.” Andrew shook his head, tried to pull his fingers out from beneath Maarten’s on the rod. “No, please…I’m so tired.”

  “You will rest. You will feel no more pain, only as much pleasure as I can give,” Maarten promised, teeth still scraping on his neck. “Remember why you are here, why you hurt. Remember the deaths of those men you called ‘brother’. Think of their suffering, and strike back.”

  Weeping, hating the failing of his body and his resolve, Andrew opened his mouth only to moan. Then to sob and implore, “Please, leave me alone. Let me go.”

  “Do not beg, my dove,” Maarten said, still working Andrew’s now hardened prick. “You desire this. You want it. Do it. Do it and know release.”

  “You shall be the Devil’s whore in Hell! You will be spit upon his burning cock and torn asunder!” Salvatore shouted.

  The words flared another memory, brilliant and sudden like a flint striking sparks. The Devil’s concubine, he’d been called, and Rory had been the Devil himself. “I…I am…I already am,” Andrew stammered, closing his eyes and recalling Rory’s smile, his kiss, the declaration of love and such sweet joy…

  Ah…there it was. The anger. His anger. His loss and his sadness and all the pain from inside, not the superficial wounds he wore on his flesh. Real pain, agony upon agony, only stemmed and softened by love…now gone.

  With a stronger voice, Andrew looked Salvatore in the eye and said, “I have already been the Devil’s whore, signore. I found it much to my liking.”

  And he let Maarten guide his hand, laying the iron on the inside of the man’s arm.

  The stench was horrid, the scream even more so, but Andrew did not turn away. Maarten’s other hand tightened and pulled and he was moaning and shuddering as his seed spilled forth. The iron dropped and Maarten left Andrew to stagger and fall. He returned with another, one hand grabbing and lifting Andrew back to his feet.

  “Again!”

  This time it was Andrew alone who chose the place and he thrust it against Salvatore’s heart. He was sobbing, screaming as much as the Inquisitor, but he did not lower the iron until the glow had begun to fade. “You took everything from me!” he cried, and stabbed the end of the iron into the man’s chest. Pulling it out, he stabbed again. “You stole my life, not once, but twice!” When he wrenched it free this time, a fount of blood followed, drenching both of them in gore. He stabbed again, and again, screaming, even though his throat was raw. His soul was screaming and nothing could quiet it.

  “I was happy! I was happy! I was happy!”

  Andrew collapsed, slipping in the puddle of blood, heaving empty on his hands and knees. There was movement behind him and hands on his hips pulled him across the filthy floor. He did not need to look up; he knew Salvatore was dead. His face was lifted anyway, and he was forced to meet Maarten’s eyes.

  “My love,” Maarten crooned. “Min lille due…” His tone was reverent, as if he spoke in a cathedral. He bent and kissed Andrew, tenderly, worshipfully, held his face and gazed upon it with such glowing affection that Andrew’s confusion returned.

  Feeling beyond sick, facing a plague of soul and conscience that threatened to snuff his life forever, Andrew brought his hands up to push away. Maarten clutched him close, instead, and Andrew became aware of the man’s nakedness as he was pushed onto his back. “Let me go!” he cried, but Maarten was crushing him, rutting and thrusting against his stomach even as Andrew scratched and clawed and sobbed.

  “No, no, no! Let me go! Please, God, let me go!”

  Maarten gripped his head, climbed up to kneel above him, and let his cock spit and empty upon Andrew’s face. “Oh, my love, you belong to me. You are mine.”

  Andrew could see darkness on the edges of his vision, moving slowly inward like ink spilled across parchment.

  “You have surpassed even my own pupil. You are magnificent, and I will never let you go.”

  “No, no, no-no-no,” Andrew sobbed, even as his sight grew dim. “God, please, help me. Forgive me.” The last thing he saw before he was blessed with unconsciousness was Maarten’s manic grin, as the man swiped the blood and come from his face and licked it from his fingers.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  It was not so cold that he needed the woolens, but the chill was enough to prompt Andrew to remove his old leather shoes and tuck his toes into the fabric of his habit. Rain began to patter outside of the window and Andrew looked up, immediately taken by the dreamlike quality of the grayish light. He stared, lost in the sight of the droplets catching on the edge of the stone. Their delicate forms, the miniscule rainbows that appeared and disappeared as the water gathered and fell. He was still staring when he heard a soft rustle behind him.

  Bending immediately to his transcribing, Andrew scratched the tip of the quill across his parchment and winced as it scraped dryly. He went to dip it back in the well and moved too fast, spilling the ink across the desk, the paper, and himself.

  There was a chuckle to his left. “Undone by an inkpot; well, Andrew, at least you were not so far along, despite the hour.”

  Andrew flushed and chewed his lip, fighting the urge to weep. He did not look up at Father Armand; instead he watched with horror the spread of the iron-gall ink. “I’m sorry, Father.”

  The abbot knelt beside him. “Look at me, Andrew.”

  Taking a deep breath, Andrew turned to face him.

  “It is only parchment, only ink. Your robes will come clean and, if they do not, they will show only that you err and learn the same as the rest of us. Do not fear mistakes, for they are what compels us to improve.” Father Armand’s round, dark eyes were warm with affection and humor and they did much to alleviate Andrew’s guilt.

  “I do want to improve,” Andrew said, his teary, youthful voice carrying clear to the ceiling of their humble scriptorium.

  “I know you do, mouse. What you must do now is clean yourself up, have a bite of bread, one small sip of wine, and accept that you were daydreaming instead of working. It’s all very well to be sorry to me, even to God, but you must forgive yourself the mistake before you can begin anew,” Father Armand said, placing a comforting hand on Andrew’s damp cheek

  Andrew nodded, smiled when the abbot tweaked his nose, and rose with him to seek a basin. “Should I fetch another robe, Father?” he asked, looking down at himself. The black ink had turned red, bright red, and was so wet and heavy that the fabric clung to him.

  “Father? Father!” Andrew called with alarm. He looked up to find the abbot but was blinded by the light streaming in the window.

  He heard Father Armand say, from a distance, “You must forgive yourself, Andrew, and return to your task.”

  Feather light strokes moved down his back, startling Andrew from sleep.

  He took a breath and held it, blinking back his tears. The hand stroking him did not cease, nor did it stray to any other part of him. It stopped before reaching the curve of his buttock and retraced its path. “You have slept for a very long time, lille due.”

  Exhaling, slowly, Andrew did not answer. Nor did he move from his position; on his stomach, at the farthest edge of the bed. He faced away from the man at his side but he could feel the line of his body pressing against him.

  “Nothing to say today, hmm?”

  Andrew longed to return to his dreams. Even the pain of remembrance was preferable to where he found himself awake. His well of strength had emptied and all that remained was a bog. He felt mired in it, trapped in thick, black despair and sinking, waiting for the moment when the muck would cover his head and blot out the light forever.

  “You are so quiet, so pliant. You are so very sweet, Andrew.”

  The man leaned over him and Andrew caught the scent of smoke and spice, not unlike the incense used at High Mass. He repressed a shudder as Maarten’s lips found the nape of his neck, managing to soften it to a small shiver. The fingers that had torn and
bruised him, had wrapped with his to guide the iron to Salvatore’s flesh, now pressed at his shoulders. They found knots of tension and skillfully worked them loose.

  “Come now, my dove.”

  The muscles newly relaxed tensed once more and Andrew had to bite back a groan.

  “Speak to me, Andrew, else I will help you find your voice,” Maarten said, his voice and fingers still gentle despite the threat.

  Andrew coughed, tried to swallow with a dry, raw throat, and managed, in a whisper, “I’m thirsty.”

  Maarten’s open mouth pressed to his neck. “Then greet me with a kiss and I will bring you some wine,” he said, his breath hot on Andrew’s ear.

  I have a task, Andrew told himself, corralling his distress. In his mind he barricaded them away.

  I will finish it.

  Slowly, he rolled onto his side, pressing back against Maarten’s body. He felt the man hum, happily, and the hand at his back slipped around to his stomach. Steeling his nerves, Andrew reached up and threaded his fingers into Maarten’s hair.

  “A kiss for a drink? What shall I do for a bite of bread?” he said, pulling the man down to him.

  His mouth was plundered, his body fondled and pressed into full wakefulness. Andrew dreaded what would follow but was surprised when Maarten drew away. “We will discuss feeding after I fulfill my promise.”

  Promises and promises.

  With body sore and stiff and aching in his heart, Andrew covered himself with one of the furs and slowly sat up. Maarten left the room and Andrew slipped his hand between the wall and the heavy wooden bed frame. His fingertips brushed the vial, still whole and unmoved. With a thankful prayer he laid his hand back in his lap as Maarten returned. He carried one large, ornate goblet, and settled beside Andrew, holding it out to him.

  Andrew took the bowl with both hands. Maarten did not release the stem, only allowing Andrew to guide it. “My lord, you are too kind,” Andrew said after taking a sip. His voice was rough with screams and he kept it low, using the added depth to his advantage. “To what do I owe such consideration?”