by Lisa Henry
“Why, you want to keep me alive so you can have my arse?”
“I already had it,” Darragh said.
Ciaran’s face burned. “I can’t believe I felt sorry for you. You’re a monster, just like the rest. Pig.” He snatched the fabric and wound it roughly around his foot. “Happy?”
Darragh grunted again. “I would be happier at home in my village. You, and your king, and the rest of stinking Dublin—I can’t stand it anymore.”
“You never should have come.” Ciaran had meant it to be an accusation, had meant for it to hurt, but it came out as a regretful murmur. Dublin had ruined him.
“You’re right,” Darragh said. For a moment his face softened slightly, then it was set again. “Come on.”
Ciaran limped alongside him. His foot stung, and the cold air burned his lungs a little. He was always cold. At least it wasn’t raining, but then, there was plenty of time for the weather to still change.
“Can’t you hurry up?” Darragh gave the chain an impatient jerk.
Ciaran grabbed it in both hands and pulled back. “Fuck you! You think I wouldn’t rather be back inside, where at least it’s warmer? I stepped in fucking glass!”
For a moment neither of them moved. Ciaran gazed at Darragh, saw his height and size as though for the first time. The raw strength of him. And he’d pulled back on the chain. For a moment he was terrified that Darragh would strike him. He’d been struck for lesser crimes than this paltry show of resistance.
“I—” he said, a grovelling apology forming in his throat.
Then Darragh scowled, pulled him forwards, and grabbed him around the hips.
“What’re you doing?” Ciaran pushed at him, panic rising. “Don’t touch me! I’m the king’s!”
Darragh released him. “I’m picking you up.”
“You’re what?”
“You can’t walk,” Darragh said, frowning. “So I’m picking you up.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“Don’t be stubborn.”
Stubborn? Ciaran made a face. Stubborn was all he had left. Darragh was the last man he wanted to accept help from … but he could feel the blood seeping through the fabric. He’d be in agony by the next block if he had to keep on. And God knew the king wouldn’t give him a break to heal. Might as well take some respite where he could find it. “Fine.”
“He sees sense,” Darragh said to the sky, and then he bent at the waist. “Up you go,” he said and patted his back.
“On your back?” Ciaran asked, face flushing. “Like a child?”
“Better than in my arms like a bride.” Darragh patted his back again.
“Fine.” Ciaran tucked the end of his chain into his trousers and approached Darragh warily. He slid his arms around Darragh’s neck, feeling the muscles of his shoulders underneath. Wrapped his legs around that broad but unpadded waist. God. He was big. And strong. Something in that country air, maybe. Ciaran closed his eyes, out of shame more than anything, out of feeling so helpless, and his breath caught in his throat as Darragh stood. Darragh’s big hands hooked under Ciaran’s knees, and it felt like the easiest thing in the world to hold tight, to lean into him, and to rest his chin on Darragh’s shoulder.
To try to think of this as a childish game, playing horsey, and not to think about the way he was rubbing against the top of Darragh’s arse.
“Gee up,” he said boldly.
Darragh snorted, but it sounded almost like a laugh. “You hardly weigh more than Saoirse, and she’s a slip of a thing.”
For a moment Ciaran forgot all of his previous anger. He smiled as Darragh began to walk, and for a moment he did feel a little like a child again, playing at a silly game. Free and full of hope.
Tell me, Ciaran wanted to say, about Cork-without-a-king. Tell me about your family. Tell me about your life. Tell me things can be different. Tell me you could take me away from here. But it was no good thinking like that. They’d started down that path in the library, and it had been too dangerous. Darragh’s natural soft-heartedness would condemn them both to death if Ciaran didn’t work to keep it hard and cruel. It was better to keep his mind right here in the grey, dreary streets and remember that they were always being watched.
I am a slave, I am a slave, I am a slave. Ciaran turned his head to stare at the empty windows of the buildings that they passed, thinking of the men who might be stationed inside. Who might be staring back. I’m the king’s slave, and—for now at least—Darragh really is the king’s new right hand. I haven’t forgotten that.
“The king will be pleased you carried his treasure,” he said, and felt the tension stiffen Darragh’s shoulders immediately.
Because it was safer for everyone if Darragh didn’t forget it, either.
The war table had been removed, turning the place into a proper throne room. The fire was burning in the fireplace, and the overcast day sunk the room in enough shadow that it didn’t look quite so grimy. It looked almost regal. Darragh, standing beside Noel and Michael, could see that Ciaran was decked out in more gold than usual. It looked gaudy, as cheap as costume jewellery. He even wore a band of it around his head. From the waist down, though, he was naked. Just kneeling beside the orange Woolsack, his hands clasped behind his back, looking as shameless as always.
It didn’t take much to rile him though, Darragh knew. Didn’t take much to turn the king’s pretty, pliant Boy from a pampered kitten into a swearing, spitting Kilkenny cat. Didn’t take much to break through at all, into something unexpected.
Darragh couldn’t figure him out. Ciaran’s mood never landed in one place long enough to get a fix on. Yesterday, he’d been so angry when they’d walked back from the warehouse, but it had vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and then he’d been cold again. Perhaps he’d spent too long in Boru’s changeable company. Caught the same crazy the king had. Poor pet. Darragh couldn’t help pitying him, even as he reviled him for the lies he told. He wondered what he’d been like, before. Still living in the North, safe with his politician father. He must have been crazy even back then, though, to forsake the shelter of the North, the stability of English rule, and cross the border into old Ireland. Why would any sane man do that?
Darragh wished he could just ask, but there was no answer Ciaran could give that Darragh could trust. He watched as Boru leaned down towards his pet and Ciaran smiled up at him. Maybe he really was in love with his king. Maybe the king had just told him to gain Darragh’s trust—convince Darragh there was something special beyond lust between them.
Had Darragh passed that secret test? Were they laughing at him behind his back, planning future schemes? The thought of it curdled his gut. He wished he could grab Ciaran by the shoulders, turn him upside down, and shake all his secrets out of him.
God, he’d never had such violent inclinations before coming to Dublin.
The arrival of a group of men at the other end of the gallery caught his attention. One of them approached Boru’s dais, striding past the ranks of the king’s men that lined the walls. He reached Boru and knelt.
“Ah,” Boru said. “Rory. How are you keeping Ballymount?”
“Secure, King Boru,” the man said, “as you will it.”
“Have you brought a champion for the Sacrificial Games?” Boru gestured for the man to rise.
“I have, Your Majesty,” Rory replied, climbing to his feet.
“I have yet to choose,” Boru said. “Show me your champion, so that I may see how strong the men of Ballymount are.”
A man came forward. He was tall but not broad. More sinew than muscle. He stood before the king, his hands clenched into loose fists.
“And he comes willingly?” Boru asked.
“He does now,” Rory replied.
Darragh wondered at the implications of that. It was probably better not to know the sort of thing that would push a man into killing others for sport.
“If you win, champion,” Boru said, “you will have fame, gold, gifts for your fel
lows from Ballymount, and a share in my most precious treasure of all—my Boy.” He caught Ciaran by the hair and thrust him forwards on his knees.
The Ballymount champion stared down at him. “I don’t fuck boys.”
“Your loss,” Boru said. “He’s tighter than any cunt, and he was born to suck cock.”
Darragh clamped his mouth shut as the men around him erupted with laughter.
Because it wasn’t true. Ciaran hadn’t been born to suck cock. He’d been born a politician’s son, destined for greater things. A politician, like his father. Or a scholar or a teacher, with his precious books. Maybe he could have been a lawyer. Ciaran belonged in a different world, the world they’d had before the disaster, where those things had existed. Could have been anything there, maybe. Only here, in this twisted otherworld that Boru had created, was he lower than nothing. Here, everything was base and corrupted, and Ciaran more than most.
As much as Darragh tried to revile him, as much as he failed to understand him, those tears that Ciaran had shed over a mouldering book had been so very real, and Darragh couldn’t forget them.
“In fact,” Boru said, eyes lighting up. “Perhaps a demonstration will whet my champions’ appetites?”
Darragh supposed it was a lucky thing that Boru had come to that conclusion—it was a sight better than becoming enraged at the grave insult of having his most precious gift refused.
“Culchie!” Boru called. Darragh’s chest seized, the dread colder than ice inside him. “I owe you a boon, don’t I? Why don’t you come take it now, show our champions the talents of my boy and the prowess of my men?”
“I need no boon, Majesty,” Darragh said. His jaw barely moved as he spoke. He kept his hands at his sides, balled into fists as if that could possibly help the shaking.
“Do it,” said Boru, his smile tightening into a grimace.
Crazy. Boru was crazy. How could any man live under his command? How could Ciaran? God. For the first time Darragh really wondered at that. The rest of Boru’s men dealt with him for a few hours a day, more, perhaps, if they were trusted. But Ciaran was with him all the time, buffeted by the winds of every changing mood, mocked and hurt, praised and coddled, all at the whims of a madman.
There was no calculated cleverness in the world that could keep a step ahead of Boru’s madness. Every single day must have meant terror for Ciaran. Every day a balancing act between abject fear and playing at being the king’s happy pet. How had he not stumbled yet? How had he even survived?
He was astonishing.
Guilt clawed at Darragh’s gut.
He was miraculous, and Darragh had been a fool to think he was cold. He wasn’t cold at all. He was like a little beetle all drawn up into its shell, hard edges and armour, but every now and then a tiny feeler poked out. And every time, Darragh had frightened it back again and blamed Ciaran for being unfeeling.
Ciaran dropped forwards onto his hands, as well trained as the dog he’d claimed Darragh to be. His small body trembled almost imperceptibly, but Darragh saw.
Darragh stepped forwards, his chest as tight as Boru’s expression. He would do this. For both their sakes. He would do as the king commanded. He would keep their tryst a secret. He would escape punishment for them both. Cause Ciaran pain so that he could go on living.
Ciaran glanced up as Darragh approached. His face was bloodless, his eyes shining with unshed tears.
He has tears, Darragh had said the last time. Tears counted for nothing in this place.
Ciaran bowed his head again and lowered himself onto his forearms. Waiting for Darragh to take his place behind him. Waiting for Darragh to make him bleed. He was shaking, his breath as fast and shallow as a tiny, fragile creature’s.
I had you wrong, Ciaran. Not crazy. Not a liar. Not a cold, calculating whore. Frightened. So frightened, even a kind man couldn’t be trusted.
Darragh tried to shut out the rest of the room, tried to pretend he couldn’t see Boru’s gleaming eyes or the smiles and leers of the others. He knelt behind Ciaran and placed a hand on his hip. He was cold, poor thing, and flinched when Darragh touched him. Darragh didn’t want him to flinch. Didn’t want any man to flinch at his touch. He wanted that overwhelming freedom and happiness and trust they’d had in the library, sucking each other to completion. Pleasure freely exchanged, given willingly.
He wanted that again.
Wanted it with Ciaran, no matter what lies and hurt had gone between them.
What he didn’t want was this: fucking him hard and fast to the cheers and boos of the king’s men, a rutting animal no better than a dog, there for the king’s enjoyment. There to humiliate and hurt and debase. Darragh’s free hand went down to his fly, touched the button on his trousers, and skirted away again. He reached forwards with it instead, sliding up Ciaran’s soft belly to cup the skin and bone above his heart.
His heart.
“I won’t—” he said, the blood rushing in his skull. “I won’t hurt you, Ciaran.”
He thought Ciaran would fight, would goad him on as he’d done before, but instead he sobbed, turned, and collapsed against Darragh’s legs, clutching him tight.
The awkward embrace lasted no more than seconds, and then hands were scrabbling at them, pulling them apart, and there was shouting, and suddenly Darragh was on the floor with Boru standing above him, screaming.
“You fucker! You filthy, lying culchie fucker!”
A boot caught him square in the ribs, and the breath whooshed out of him.
I said his name. God, I said his name.
Darragh twisted his head to try to see through the forest of legs, to try to see Ciaran.
“This is how you repay my hospitality? By taking my Boy without permission? By refusing my permission when it is granted? You were really presumptuous enough to think his body was ever for your pleasure, instead of mine? So you seduced him? Or was it the slut who seduced you?”
Protect him.
Darragh coughed, half rolled into his side. “I did. I … seduced.”
From somewhere close-by he heard a high-pitched wail. Ciaran. He couldn’t see if they were hurting him, couldn’t even catch a glimpse of his golden hair.
“I’ll show you,” Boru said, spittle flying. He crouched over Darragh’s prone body, a leg on either side, and leaned forwards until their noses nearly touched. “I’ll show you what happens to those who plot against me!” He laughed suddenly, a feral sound. “I’ve found my champion at last!”
“Why … why would I fight for you?”
“You’ll fight or you’ll die,” Boru said. “You want to fuck that slut again? You’ll win. You want to live? You’ll win. Otherwise, I don’t give a fuck if you die in the ring. But I assure you, Boy and I will be watching.”
“I …” Darragh clutched at his ribs. “If I win, I live?”
“For long enough to accept your prize, at least. But won’t it be enough, to fuck him one last time …” His voice turned simpering and saccharine. “To hold him, to kiss his filthy fucking mouth, before I put both your heads on pikes next to Hugh’s?”
Both our heads. Darragh nearly vomited, not sure if it was the pain or the realisation that he’d condemned Ciaran as well.
“My name is Ciaran. Forget you heard it.”
“What were you thinking, little pet?” Boru’s voice was soft, kind.
Ciaran, kneeling on the floor with his arms bound behind him and a blindfold covering his eyes, turned his face to follow it. “Please, my king. Please.”
“I’ll tell you what you thought.” Boru grabbed a handful of his hair and twisted his head up. “You thought that because your father is the Taoiseach that you were somehow different? Special?”
Ciaran’s breath rasped in his throat. God, he had, hadn’t he? Thought that his name, thought that his cleverness, and thought that his stories were enough to keep him alive. But if survival was enough, he would never have kissed Darragh in the library. All of Ciaran’s cleverness undone in a heartbeat by
that sudden, overwhelming need for comfort and affection.
“You’re not worth the supplies your father offered,” Boru said, his voice as smooth as honey. “He’s nothing but a coward full of hot air and bluster, and you’re nothing but a whore.”
“Please,” he whispered.
God, where was Darragh? What was happening to him now?
“Noel says I should send you home if I’m done with you, rather than risk the wrath of the Dáil. But your father’s not coming for you, cunt, is he? Not sending a diplomat. Not sending an army. You’re already dead to him, aren’t you?”
A flash of memory caught Ciaran.
“The Dáil only exists thanks to the goodwill of the North,” his father had said as he scraped butter over his toast, raining crumbs on the blue tablecloth. “We must help our people here before we even think about return.”
But Ciaran couldn’t wait.
“Already dead,” he murmured.
“That’s right, pet. I filmed you, you know. Sucking my cock. He wanted proof you were alive, so I sent him the best evidence of your life now that I could think of. How you moaned like a little whore for me and lapped up my cum like the hungry little boy you are. I guess he didn’t much want a cocksucker like that back in his home.”
Ciaran shuddered, his breath hitching in his throat. “I don’t … I don’t believe you.”
Boru wrenched him up by the hair and dragged him across the floor. “You doubt my word? You, you dirty little treacherous slut, doubt my word?”
Tears wet the tight blindfold. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I’m sorry. Please.” His arms twisted in their tight bonds. He was free of the gold for the first time in so many months, only to have it replaced by horrible, tearing hemp rope.
Boru let go of his hair, dumping him on the floor. He crouched above him, knees digging into Ciaran’s ribs. “I trusted you, my treasure.”
Ciaran flinched as Boru ran his fingers through his hair and then down his face.
Boru gripped his jaw roughly. “So tell me, Boy, how the culchie seduced you away from me. What did he promise you? What did you tell him?”