Chapter Text
Before me lay a vast steppe of Venetian silks, their colour a royal purple worn only in Constantinople, fabrics enriched with threads brought from beyond the Mediterranean, caressing the infinite with elegant languor. Every fold, every crease in the fabric, every plain visible to the eye was a landscape woven from silver threads and embellished with gold dust, the exploits of saints and knights embroidered by the hands of Lady Fortuna herself.
The pelts of ancient, forgotten beasts—a beauty coveted by pagans and saints alike—formed the bedchamber for the obscene vision before me.
Red hair lay strewn across the hide of some great albino beast, the stark white highlighting those fiery strands like fresh snow at the gates of Hell. From that mass of hair her naked back emerged, arching upwards in a graceful, deliberately aesthetic curve—an act of idolatry, yet obscene in its very conception, like a hetaera paying an erotic tribute to Aphrodite.
Her hands lay clenched into fists at her sides, snow-white fur trapped between delicate fingers that peeked out timidly amidst her tremors. Her thighs, both visible from this angle, descended from the expanse of her enticing hips; they were parted in a submissive opening—a sign of surrender—and yet, the familiar tensing of her muscles betrayed her pursuit of the perfect angle of pleasure.
Quid pro quo.
I tried to discern her face, but found only skin brutally pressed against the furs, large, coarse fingers mercilessly squeezing her delicate neck. I knew that roughness; I had dreamed of it against my own body countless times, longing for it with a delirious, shameful abandon.
My eyes followed the arm upward, veins mapping skin marked by a warrior’s life and a blacksmith’s labor. They were sturdy roots spreading over muscles taut as steel. These were arms accustomed to destroying and creating with equal ease.
His bare chest was a mural of battles still unfolding, a testimony of a thousand wars etched into flesh in the most brutal and honest of ways. It was a painful landscape. The ghosts of the suffering brought by every cut, every gash, and every blow hovered over him, ever-present—just as the reminder of lost innocence lingered in every stitch of skin and every blood-soaked bandage.
When the frantic pounding of my heart finally allowed me to seek out his face, those familiar blue eyes—already etched onto the back of my eyelids as the undeniable mark of my obsession—looked back at me.
With a movement I myself had repeated with religious diligence a thousand times upon dozens of faceless women, he thrust into her. He forced her to tear through the air with an almost animalistic cry, devoid of the dignity and nobility a lady such as she ought to possess.
Lady Ruthard.
A second sound followed, then a third, until a cacophony of moans reigned over the silk and furs, over the sweat and ragged breaths. It was a scene devoted solely to the delicate process of unravelling the mind from the shackles of propriety to surrender to the most basic of pleasures.
My stomach churned with bile at the sight, yet my eyes, too proud to look away, held his gaze. He looked back at me with a look too lucid for the act he was performing—and I fought the urge to look down, to witness the familiar sight of a man's flesh being voraciously devoured by a woman’s sweet entrance.
“You’d love to take her place, wouldn’t you, Lord Capon?”
The words snapped me back to reality; my still-sleepy eyes fell upon the bedroom door, the uncomfortable pressure between my legs reminding me of the ungodly nature of my dreams. How on God's green, beautifull, fucking perfect earth could my cursed head conjure up such vivid, vile, foul, fucked up visions? It was almost admirable, were it not for the aftermath they brought with them.
The clamour of the city—a sound with which I was unfamiliar—could be heard beyond the walls of the Ruthard palace; it was louder and livelier even than that of Rattay, with the rattle of miners not far from here, the rumbling of heavy wagons, the shouts of merchants and town criers, and the tolling of a thousand bells from Sedletz Monastery to the cathedral two blocks away, its name eluding me in the morning fog.
The dream replayed itself in my mind, and a bitterness that was almost childlike in its unadulterated, unfiltered nature churned in my stomach before rising up my throat like foul bile and settling uncomfortably at the back of my head, where I assumed it would remain for the next few hours.
A growl of disgust at my own existence escaped my lips, my hands reaching up to shield my eyes from the tragic reality to which I had been subjected.
Why, for fuck's sake, did I have to ask him? What sort of self-flagellation was my damned, tortured, stupid soul seeking when I received his confirmation?
Of course he would shag her; as soon as I saw the way they exchanged smiles after her rescue in Maleshov, I knew Lady Ruthard had a knack for spotting an opportunity when she saw one. And when they found themselves having to spend a night in a bloody palace all alone together, the likelihood that this woman, cunning as a fox, would seize the chance was simply an inevitable outcome.
And stupid, yokel, bloke Henry, as naive as only someone who, just a couple of months ago, knew nothing beyond his little village in the middle of nowhere could be, thought he’d been her first. Ha! Her first man from Skalitz, alright.
The surprise in his eyes when I drove home to him, in the most petty way possible, that he had most likely been just another fling in a city of endless possibilities brought with it a most bittersweet sting.
“You’d love to take her place, wouldn’t you, Lord Capon?”
The words echoed through my head once more, a commandment delivered from the heights of Sinai—a twisted edict urging me to worship that golden calf, to kneel before an idol indifferent to my wickedness.
I rolled onto my back, my gaze drifting toward the window. This whirlwind of jealousy and desire was a persistent companion with an unfathomable gaze; its eyes scrutinized my soul with the devil’s wit, familiar with the baseness of original sin ingrained in my mortal flesh, urging me to indulge in desires unworthy even of a beast.
I couldn’t fight it. The more I struggled against this entity—which felt less like an evil to be vanquished and more like an inherent part of my very being—the more I felt its presence on my skin, in my gait, my breathing, my very speech.
I couldn’t go on like that. I wasn’t at home, surrounded by walls and the comforts of my own little world. I’d been warned far too many times about the dangers of letting one’s mind wander in the heat of battle not to realise that this bloody mess could become a burden, both for me and for those around me.
Ah. A fear of enclosed spaces, and now this. I was collecting emotional baggage like Sigismund collected political hostages, only I wasn’t getting anything in return. Just self-pity and blue balls.
But if I couldn’t fight it, what remained?
Surrender was the only viable path; however, acknowledging the feeling had not been enough. Accepting it had not been enough. I was led to the inescapable conclusion that my surrender had to be physical to truly take root.
Fuck the bathwenches. Clearly, that hadn’t worked; I still had enough sense not to repeat the same thing a third time—or a tenth. What of another man? I was no fool; I knew that no one but Henry could fit perfectly upon my altar. But perhaps… perhaps in my quest to draw closer to my ideal, I would find flaws in my worship. Blemishes on my golden calf.
My neglected little friend gave a slight twitch in a miserable plea for attention.
I wasn't a man given to abstinence, but my noble blood had taken me by surprise with this insistent need to defend this ideal of friendship.
True friendship. It was a sweet, gilded precept of mine, that had kept my seven years old me awake and longing within the walls of an unknown castle, where a mother’s touch was a yearning considered a weakness, and the only certainty to cling to was the value of a title to be honoured through constant, endless, ceaseless improvement.
Other pages of my own age seemed content to fill their stupid minds with this blood-dictated purpose, but I—always rebellious and cocked up in one way or another— filled my childish heart with minstrel tales told over cups of wine and beeswax candles; with poems of knights, intrepid and not always so Christian, hidden in the darkest corners of the library; with murals in the hot summer and tapestries in the freezing winter, depicting moments of friendship and loyalty forever frozen in time; loyalty not always towards the king, nor towards God, but towards their unshakeable and eternally pure bonds.
But I was no longer a child, and this longing for a bond was no longer pure.
What was the point now?
Never in my life had my hand reached for my cock with such urgency. I tried to push the fabric out of the way, as if it were an affront to everything I regarded as sacred.
Ah, shit. I hadn’t brought my bloody Buck’s Blood potion. I clicked my tongue in annoyance, raising my hand to my mouth and letting my tongue run over my palm like a common dog licking its wounds. I took my cock in hand once more—bries already down my thighs—before the morning chill could dry the spit.
Fuck.
Henry’s smile burst forth without leave, seating itself upon the throne of my adoration as the undisputed king of my desire—right alongside the memory of that big, round, hairy arse. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I was so fucking gone.
His image teased me with the casual certainty of one who knows exactly what those hands could do to me. Those eyes, fuck, that mouth—he possessed the practiced ease of a whore in the dark and the arrogant confidence of a high noble at court.
The image of Henry opening Rosa up, thrust by thrust, fucking her with the same brutal violence he would use to force an enemy into submission, drew small white tears from my twitching cock. They soon mingled with the near-dry spit in the palm of my hand. I spread the small offering, grateful for the lubrication, and, now exhausted of my inhibitions, surrendered to the depravity of my mind.
I cast Rosa from my thoughts as an insignificant attempt by my sense of decorum to uphold the laws of nature, and at last gave free rein to my imagination. She wouldn’t be able to bear such brute force against her delicate frame, anyway.
But I could.
His hands would be rough in their clumsiness, still unable to fully gauge his newly acquired strength. Fingers trained in the vicious grip of a sword’s hilt would part the virginal skin of my entrance, seeking the place where his almost painful lust might find respite—the hole where he could plunge his sin and offer his precious seed in honor of mine.
Oh, how my hands and knees would ache for the rough surface of the floor, leaving the furs and silks to those still bound by the shackles of dignity. No, I did not want dignity or respect. I wanted no titles; I wanted no ‘my lord’ or ‘sir.’ I wanted to be taken without scruple, like a man who fears no pain and seeks in pleasure something baser and filthier—something that answers neither to tenderness nor to the laws of God. For if I were to go to Hell, I would do so with all the fucking honors.
Jesus. I wanted it to hurt.
My climax came embarrassingly fast, yet it was as intense and extraordinary as those first discoveries of early puberty, when the delights of the body were still a terra incognita. The euphoria that this new layer of adoration added to the experience was fucking beautifull—as if everything finally made sense. Every poem, every song, every piece of prose dedicated to love clicked into place within the workings of a body still riding the waves of an orgasm that felt very much like the first of its kind.
I waited, heart still beating against my chest, for the guilt to set in. But it did not come. I was too absorbed in this rediscovery of pleasure for shame to haunt me, and a laugh of genuine surprise rippled through my still-racing chest.
For a few minutes, as my consciousness slowly returned to me, I did not recognize myself.
A certain unease regarding those sacrilegious thoughts eventually reared its head; they were unexplored depths of my being, bringing an uncertainty akin to the absolute darkness of a dense forest. I pushed the feeling aside before its vile nature could take root in my heart. I wouldn’t let some petty fear mar this elation. After all, the deed was done, and neither regret nor guilt seemed keen to catch up with me. To hell with that.
I had a plan, then. I would explore this new layer of pleasure at the hands of a man. Who? No idea, but Kuttenberg was vast and full of possibilities, and the ladies of the bathhouses were discreet and quite helpful in improper matters, provided the right price was offered.
I breathed in deeply, revitalized. I ignored the sticky sensation on my legs and the dampness on my hand—even the pain in my nose which, thank God, was no longer swollen, though it had taken on an ugly greenish hue at the bridge and purple at the sides. Nothing that the rest of my perfect features couldn’t overshadow in the gloom of the night.
The others soon returned from their mission, bearing the splendid news that the Polish cunt had decided, in some sort of fucked up epiphany, that the papal legate would be better off silent—or dead. My sins certainly paled in comparison to this pack of animals forsaken by God.
In two days’ time, the heist on the Italian Court would take place; just two days of preparation before another series of events left me no time to breathe anything other than stale sweat, blood and steel—if I was still breathing at the end.
“Henry,” It was around midday when I approached my squire, who was sitting on his bed, staring absently at the murky liquid in his jug. No armor in sight.
This room was definitely more decent than the one we’d left behind at the Devil’s Den, though buried too deep in the bowels of the palace for my liking.
His gaze shifted in my direction, probably wondering when I’d entered his room.
“It was open,” I answered the unspoken question, pointing to the doorframe I was now leaning against. A heavy sigh escaped his lips as he took a long swig of the piss they’d brought back from the Devil’s Den. I wrinkled my nose, feeling the bitterness even in my throat.
Something was weighing on him—some new or old enemy slipping its malicious fingers through that ever-active mind, all too alert, and a heart kind to a fault for a world where such virtue had no place. I nibbled my lower lip, trying to find the answer in his face, but found only a frown.
“Need something, sir? I’m no fair lady to stare at,” he joked, one corner of his mouth lifting as if pulled by sheer brute force.
Ah, I suppose I wouldn’t get any answers in broad daylight, let alone with such an unwelcome shroud of sobriety hanging over us.
“I’m in need of your alchemist’s skills, my dear friend.” I couldn’t help but smile at the sudden shift in his expression. His annoyance at heavier, more profound matters vanished, replaced by a more fleeting, earthly irritation. I waited patiently for his fatalistic imagination to draw its thousand conclusions.
“Seriously? Right now?”
I shrugged.
“What bloody madness—”
“Oh, come on, Henry, do you think so little of me? I’d never risk our mission for some stupid whim”
No, it was much more important than that. A matter of life and death, actually.
He rolled his eyes, his gaze finally drifting toward the ceiling in a plea for patience that always found an answer when it came to me. I smiled with satisfaction when his eyes met mine again, his being ready to follow orders.
“What do you need, sir?”
“Clove oil,” I said. He remained silent for a heartbeat. “For this afternoon, if possible.”
He raised a hand to his forehead, massaging the bridge of his nose to release the tension.
“How strong?” he asked, his eyes closed behind his fingers.
“Not very. Just…” My gaze drifted to the dying hearth, where a wisp of smoke rose from the ashes, mere minutes from ceasing to exist. “During the siege of Maleshov, I chafed my skin riding back.” I shrugged, hoping that man’s damn curiosity didn’t rear its ugly mug. “Some imbecile nearly sliced my crotch; by a hair’s breadth, the fucker almost deprived Bohemia of the privilege of witnessing my lineage,” I added, hoping for no further questions.
His fingers moved away from his eyes, a flash of urgency crossing his gaze. “I can have a look if—”
“Oh no, Henry. While I hold you in high regard, I’m afraid it’s still not enough to let you get all that close and intimate with my backside.” He opened his mouth and closed it again. I looked for that characteristic blush on his ears, and there it was.
Lovely.
“It only hurts a bit, but I need something to numb it enough so I can ride. Nothing major, really.”
His brow furrowed then. “But you won't be riding anything until the heist.” Well, that was debatable. “What would you need it for this afternoon, anyway? ”
I clicked my tongue. Fucking inquisitive bastard.
“So I’m supposed to put up with the discomfort for the next few days?” I crossed my arms over my chest, making no attempt to hide my annoyance. “God, Henry, those pigs we’ve been living with are dulling your sense of duty towards your lord. That’s not good.”
His exhausted body let out yet another sigh. He had been riding alongside the others toward Loretz since before the sun had even begun to peek over the horizon. Had I been a better lord, I would likely have urged him to rest, but I was not, and time marched on without waiting for anyone.
He rose with sluggish movements, every muscle seemingly begging him to return to bed. However, I knew that if he truly wanted to sleep, he’d already be doing so; whatever it was that kept his head from the pillow wouldn’t be silenced any time soon.
“Fine. I shall do as my lord commands.” A smile spread across his face, weary but sincere. For a moment, I wondered if he was merely indulging my whim to quiet the pandemonium raging behind those eyes.
“Thank you, Hal. I don’t know what I’d do without my most beloved subject.”
He snorted, followed by a deep, sweet laugh that twisted my heart with a familiar, unfulfilled longing. I took a deep breath, stifling the emotion as my lungs filled with air.
“Bah, you’d manage just fine,” he said, before drinking that foul swill in one go, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in the most indecent wa—
Calm the fuck down. Jesus.
He began to walk toward the door, tankard left behind in some table I couldn’t care less for. I followed him with my eyes.
“You’re not wrong there, I suppose.” I cleared my throat and took a step back as soon as he walked past me, feeling the need for a bit of space. He didn’t seem to notice. “A grave would most certainly not require your services.”
“Oh, you’d be amazed at the number of graves that have been in need of my services,” he said before leaving the room, a most mischievous smile playing on his face.
I looked away, pretending to take an interest in the furnishings of his room. That bloody idiot had no idea what that sort of smile did to me.
“Just so you know, I’ll curse your arse from the beyond if you go anywhere near my headstone.” A sense of pride welled up inside me, overcoming the lust, knowing that in a matter of minutes I’d managed to banish his demons—at least for a moment.
“Aye aye, sir. See you in a couple of hours.”
“Godspeed, Henry.” I didn’t turn to look at him until I saw his back disappear as he went through the door leading to the courtyard.
Tonight, God willing—though probably not, given its sinful nature—I’d find some sort of relief for… whatever the fuck this was.