The Red King Read online

  Andrew bent to kiss him, as sweaty and breathless as he. “I will hold you to that.”

  Smiling, Rory cupped his head and answered. “I’m sure you will.”

  ***

  While they slept, wrapped around each other in the dim, quiet little house, Rory dreamed of a storm. Frost covered everything; his men, the rudder, the very sails on his ship. There was a fierce, biting wind that cut through him, stripping the flesh from his chest and back. His heart was exposed. It started to freeze, seizing, turning hard and grey as he fought to steer the ice-covered vessel. Pain radiated from his chest out, shooting down his arms and legs and into his head. He cried and shook with cold and fear, but did not release the rudder.

  Rory knew he was going to die, yet he held fast.

  Then there was the briefest of glimmers across the blue frozen surfaces. A soft, golden light broke through the black clouds and touched the ice, illuminating the entire surface in shimmering splendor. It faded, returned, and this time found Rory where he stood. He turned into the warmth, letting it shine on his cold and aching heart. He felt it soften, warm, thrum and begin to beat once more. The sound of it was so foreign, so long forgotten that it worried him. It terrified him.

  Rory jerked. For a moment he was aware of his face pressed to Andrew’s neck, of soothing hands down his back. He could hear Andrew speaking, his voice low and comforting. Only on the edge of awake, Rory did not respond except to pull Andrew closer, to seek his warmth as he sought it in his dream. He drifted again, calmed by the touch, the smell of the man in his arms. He only barely heard Andrew’s words as he fell back into slumber, but he carried them with him back into the storm.

  “You’re safe, Rory. You’re with me and you’re safe.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Supper was a communal affair, around a fire in the center of the village, in the Berber way. They reclined on carpets and partook of a myriad of foods. There was music, some dancing, and a grand story about the old Egyptian kings told by Idir. Rory translated for Andrew, carefully matching the words to keep the story correct else Idir would take him to task. Andrew laughed when this happened and told them both, “Ramses is not unfamiliar to me. His story is chronicled in many places.”

  Idir came closer and spoke in low, dramatic tones. “You have not heard the tale from an Egyptian, the blood of Ramses himself flows in my father’s, father’s veins.”

  Andrew conceded that was true and settled back down for the rest of the tale. He leaned on a cushion, closer to Rory this time so that the translation did not disturb the telling. “He had red hair, you know,” Andrew whispered, conspiratorially.

  “What?” Rory asked, having been distracted by the smoke, saffron and very-Andrew smell coming from the nape of Andrew’s neck.

  Turning to him, Andrew said with a smile, “Ramses. He and his father, both of them had red hair.”

  “Interesting.”

  “It does seem to come with a certain prestige,” Andrew commented, thoughtfully.

  “Or curse, I suppose, depending on your point of view,” Rory answered.

  “Is that why Maarten chose you?” Andrew’s question was soft, as gentle as he could make it.

  Not certain he wanted this to begin here, within the village, Rory did not answer right away.

  “When you say his name, I think of Acklie, or someone like him. Monstrous, deformed, ugly down to his very soul,” Andrew further ventured.

  “No, Maarten was…quite lovely to look at, a true Northman in stature and appearance. His madness did not manifest in his face, at first,” Rory said.

  Andrew looked perplexed by this. “It’s unfair that one should look appealing yet be so appalling.”

  That made Rory smile, but it was rueful at best. They were close enough that Rory felt his breath when he spoke. The others were all listening to Idir and paid no mind to them. It was as good a time as any. “I do think it was my hair that caught his attention. I was the only person in the village wearing this particular plumage.’ Rory sounded calm, but something was worrying at the edge of his thoughts. Something ugly. “Plus I was very pale, even more so than you, I think. He was curious, he said, and wanted to see if all my hair was the same color.”

  Andrew frowned, but did not interrupt.

  “I told him I didn’t have any other hair and he had me strip to prove it.”

  Even in dancing light of the fire, Rory could see Andrew’s face blanch. “Did he…?”

  “Not that night. No, he touched me, touched every place I’d never seen or thought of at that age. He was not harsh. He didn’t hurt me at all, really. He was just curious, like he said,” Rory said with a shrug vastly more at ease than he felt. Again, those feelings were more vivid than ever. He could remember the close examination of his scalp beneath the hair, the careful attention to his feet, and then shuddering as fingers stroked his ass, his balls, his cock.

  “That wasn’t curiosity. It was humiliation,” Andrew said, looking away for a moment.

  “I think, maybe for him, it was curiosity. My reaction was unimportant when he began. He just wanted to see.”

  “When he began?” Andrew repeated, brows drawn together. “Was there more?”

  Rory took a moment and a deep breath. “Maarten was, and is still, I imagine, extremely thorough. He wanted to explore all of me. He put his hands in my mouth to feel, opened it nearly far enough to split my lips so he could see. Then he opened my ass, using his fingers much the same way. I tell you he did not hurt me, it was all very gentle,” he added when Andrew looked ill.

  “I can’t imagine how he did not hurt you,” Andrew whispered.

  “He made me come. I didn’t know what had happened, all I knew was that not only did I not hurt, I felt pleasure I had never known. He seemed very pleased by it,” Rory continued. He couldn’t repress his sudden trembling and sat up, away from Andrew, to stare at the fire.

  Andrew moved slowly, sitting up next to him. He followed suit, staying silent while he watched Idir act out a violent battle. After the story returned to its normal pace, he said, cautiously, “You…defend his actions.”

  “I defend my own!” Rory snarled, facing him. There was a pause in the conversation around them and he quieted his tone, but with difficulty. “I was terrified and alone, I wanted my mother! Maarten comforted me, held me, and even his rutting against me was better than the cold fear and agony in my heart. He was gentle and I was grateful, even though it was wrong.”

  “Maarten was wrong, not you,” Andrew told him. He spoke softly, his eyes held no judgment. “You don’t need to explain yourself. Not to me. Not to anyone.”

  “Then to myself, I defend. I never thought to fight, Andrew. For years I went where he led. I did as he told. I took what he gave, without question.” Rory had to stop now, his voice was wavering and he felt a veritable barrage of emotions. There was fear, anger, regret, pain and longing and something new. It was the thing that pushed all of the feelings afore it, forcing them through the narrow crack of his barricaded heart. “I think,” he said, thickly, trying to prevent his lips from twisting, “I need…to take a walk.”

  Andrew nodded, but took his hand before Rory could stand to leave. “I will be waiting for you.”

  ***

  Rory walked towards the sea, struggling to contain the overflow of emotion that threatened his control. He shook with the effort, clenched his fists and ground his teeth. He’d not had this lapse of detachment since he’d escaped the chains, and it infuriated him. Cursing his weakness, he lashed out, smashing his hand into the trunk of a cypress. Rory hit it again, and again, until he felt his knuckles split and swell and his hand throbbed from the pain.

  Focusing only on the pulse of his engorged hand, he walked farther, stopping at the edge of the water. He still shook, still found it hard to breathe. The tension was starting to cause an ache in his shoulders and in his head and still he fought the release. Rory took deep breaths, steadying himself as he had been taught. But the teaching had
started with Maarten, who had wanted him to bear more and more of his torture.

  Suddenly his mind supplied the full memory; Maarten was above him, so tall and long limbed. His long hair was nearly white, his eyes like chips of blue ice and his smile was beatific, even while he forced his huge fingers into Rory. Up, in, going on and on until Rory had cried out. Then the pressure began and Rory’s body responded. Maarten laughed, took his small, childish erection in hand and squeezed. The guttural language he spoke did not disguise his delight. He spoke one word in English, “Breathe”, and Rory did as commanded. Maarten had continued, pressing and squeezing until his slender body stiffened and he choked.

  Rory dropped to his knees, retching as he relived the moment with shocking clarity. He had vomited then, too, and fainted. Maarten had thrown cold water on him and continued, repeating the process until Rory was sore, weak, and exhausted. The gentleness he had remembered, yes, but not the relentlessness, the utter disregard for his meager form and the ordeal he had faced. Hours passed before Maarten had finished with him, releasing him only to put his manly, thick cock between Rory’s thighs and rut there until completion.

  Seeing through the eyes of his child-self, Rory could now recall the bruises on his thighs and stomach, his own small, sore, reddened cock, and the ropes of come springing forth to land on his chest. His gut heaved again and found a scream at the back of his throat as it spilled the remainder of his supper. Rory screamed loud enough to wake and set to flight a flock of sleeping birds and he screamed again, again. Something tore in his throat and he stopped, sitting back on his knees with his face to the sky.

  Rory counted the stars, remembering the night he spoke to Andrew about them. A man’s decisions are his own, he had said, encouraging Andrew to make his own choices, to follow his own heart. Andrew had taken his word and made his choice, offering himself up, bruised and battered, to Rory’s whim. He questioned, he argued, and he resisted, but he was there when Rory called, when Rory reached out a hand. Andrew was following where Rory led, preparing for a mission that would surely end in his death.

  Something in Rory, the warmth that had been growing daily since he first set his eyes upon Andrew, winked out for a moment. It was like a candle that flickered in the wind but brightened once again when the breeze was gone. That one second without it left him cold, empty, and dreading the day when it was gone completely. He contemplated it a second time and the cold overtook him, causing him to shiver. Rory’s chest began to hurt. He put his face in his hands and began to weep.

  Rory did not hear the steps behind him, nor his name called. He was unaware of anything but the searing pain in his soul until gentle hands rested on his shoulders. Rory tried to shrug them away, but they persisted. Only resting on his shoulders, though, they did not try to curb his tears or pull him into an embrace. They merely stayed, warm and comforting, where they were.

  Eventually he calmed, but did not move. The hands slowly ran down his arms, stopped at his elbow. Rory felt breath at his neck, then a head rest on his shoulder. There were no words, still, but Rory knew it was Andrew. He’d known at the first touch. “I…” he began, but his throat was raw and dry.

  “You do not need to speak, my king,” Andrew whispered.

  “Yes, I do,” Rory croaked. “He did hurt me. He hurt me terribly, but that’s not why I hate him.”

  Andrew waited, simply holding him. Rory sent a fervent thank you to the winds, not daring to name God.

  “When I was grown he took another boy. I was able to keep the worst from him, but one day…one day Maarten wanted me to…hurt the boy, while he watched. I refused. Maarten killed him, because I said no,” Rory felt his tears return and paused to swallow them back.

  “He killed the boy because he was evil, insane, not because of you,” Andrew said, softly but with great assurance.

  “I tried to stop him. He beat me, nearly to death, and sent me away immediately. I was put into chains and sent to the ships.”

  Andrew raised one hand and brushed the hair away from Rory’s face. “You have every right to hate him, Rory, but consider this. All of your energy has been focused on Maarten for so very long, what do you think will happen when he is dead? Where will you turn when his evil is gone? Hate fills your life. When you are left without the thing you hate, your life is empty.”

  “Are you saying I should not kill him?” Rory asked, sounding tired to his own ears.

  “I am saying,” Andrew told him, pulling him around so that their faces were together. “I am saying if you could let go of your hate your life would be filled with so much love.”

  Rory asked him, “And when love is gone it leaves you empty, too. What’s the difference?”

  “The difference is Fleming and Etienne, Malik, Idir and Titrit. Love begets love. Hate begets only darkness,” Andrew said. He smiled, sweetly, tears standing in his own eyes. “You don’t have to live the rest of your life in hate.”

  Rory touched his face and let his thumb trace the curve of Andrew’s lips. “Let’s go home. I’m tired.”

  ***

  Rory woke to the smell of cooked meat and warm spices. He opened his eyes to find a plate and a tall cup of liquid beside him. He gratefully reached for the drink and drew it to him, pausing when the smell of mead reached his nose. Smiling, he quaffed half of it in one great gulp. The meat and vegetables he made short work of and he finished the rest of mead. He wondered where Andrew had gone, certain that it was he that had brought the meal.

  Hearing a curious noise, as if a door closed on the wind, Rory rose, wincing at the stiffness of his hand. The memory of striking the hard, unyielding cypress came back to him and he shook his head. Unwise, in the face of all they still needed to accomplish. He could make a fist and flex it out, though it pained him, so he chose to be glad he did not break any bones. He noticed then that the light creeping in beneath the drapes was leaning towards the east, and knew that the hour was much later than he had first believed. The strange sound came again, a sort of dull thud that he could not place.

  Pulling aside the door’s curtain and hooking it out of the way, Rory saw Andrew in the clearing. He had returned to his trousers and boots, forgoing the native garb in favor of his sturdier garments. Shirtless, he stood quietly, holding the small dagger Rory had given him. When he whirled with the knife raised in his hand, Rory’s eyes widened. The dagger hit a tree some twenty yards from where he stood, sticking squarely in the center of a large carved X. Andrew smiled, satisfied.

  “You’ve been practicing,” Rory said, impressed. His voice sounded like a toad’s.

  Andrew turned to him, his smile stretching into a wide, happy grin. “You’re awake!” As was his way, he ran towards Rory to greet him, only to stop before he was within reach. “How do you feel?”

  Rory looked down at his hand. “Perhaps not well, but,” he looked back to Andrew, “at ease.” He opened his arms and Andrew went to him without hesitation. The feel of Andrew pressed close, even the very scent of him, lifted Rory’s spirits. After a warm, gentle kiss, Rory asked, “Why did you let me sleep so late?”

  “You did not want to wake, at first. I could not get you to even crack an eye or make a sound. You slept so peacefully I decided it must be necessary,” Andrew answered, brushing a stray lock of hair from Rory’s eyes. “Sleep is nature’s balm, and you were in great need.”

  “I believe my balm is you,” Rory told him, leaning in for another quick kiss. He ran his hands up Andrew’s back, slipping in the sweat. “That shot was impressive. How long have you been practicing?” he said, indicating the thrown dagger.

  “I worked some with Etienne, that morning before we left. He said you’d only shown me one way and that I should entertain other options. I didn’t recognize his clever insinuation until later,” Andrew said, smirking. He left Rory’s arms to fetch the weapon and did a fast spin of it on palm, with a proud grin. “He is a good teacher.”

  Rory smiled and nodded in agreement. “You’re doing well. Remind
me to thank him.” He watched Andrew as he returned, wiping the sweat from his face with one arm. “How do you feel about a swimming lesson?”

  Andrew had fed and watered Brighid while Rory slept and the mare was as playful and easy with him as she was with Rory. “It took me damn near a month to get her to warm to me. I find that unfair. You trollop,” Rory said to the horse, “you are a disloyal nag.”

  “Don’t blame her,” Andrew said, holding a soft ripe pear up to Brighid’s mouth. He smiled, beguilingly, “It is my changeling blood that has her enthralled.”

  Rory conceded with a shake of head and moved to Brighid’s side. He hoisted himself up and threw a leg across her bare back. “Come here.”

  Andrew obeyed, looking up at him, curiously.

  “Take my arm, firmly. When I say, bend your knees and jump as high as you can. Throw your leg over her as I just did,” Rory instructed, leaning down and offering his arm.

  “Can she hold us both?” Andrew asked, concerned.

  “I promise she can.”

  Andrew took his arm at the bend, as instructed, and jumped when told. Rory hefted him atop the horse, at his back, and felt him settle unsteadily against him. He took Andrew’s arm and wrapped it around his waist. “Just relax and move with the horse,” he said, smiling when Andrew’s other arm joined the first. “Hold on.”

  Rory urged Brighid to a gallop, taking them to the cliff’s edge and following it out of the ruins. He felt Andrew ease into the gait, hips rocking in rhythm to his own. Arms still clutched tightly around Rory’s middle, Andrew had his face pressed into Rory’s shoulder, eyes hidden as the trail passed beneath the horse’s hooves. Rory found all of this quite to his liking, but as they neared a break in the cliffs, he slowed. Brighid shook her head and whinnied, wanting the speed and power of the run, but Rory petted her neck and promised more exercise on the morrow.