The Red King (36 page)

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 struggled, 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.

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?”

Maarten took a much larger draught and wiped
his mouth on his arm. As he passed the cup to Andrew once more, he
answered, “You are quite the prize. I feel most fortunate to have
you.”

“I am only a man, my lord, and a smallish
one, at that,” Andrew demurred. He took another sip of wine, wary
of another hidden physic. His stomach churned, but he did not know
if it was from the wine or the look on Maarten’s face.

The smile was gentle, almost adoring, but
those pale blue eyes were bright with an edge of lunacy. “You are a
gift to me, a treasure beyond compare. I have searched the world
for you.”