The Red King (34 page)

“No, leave it. Leave them both,” Maarten
ordered, opening his own loose garment. “Come here, now.”

Andrew took a breath, and then a step. He
repeated this until he stood before Maarten once more.

“On your knees,” Maarten ordered,
roughly.

“No,” Andrew answered. Before Maarten could
react, he surged forward and caught the man’s long legs between his
own. Then, slowly, Andrew climbed into his lap, sliding his thighs
up to grip at Maarten’s hip. Placing both hands on those broad
shoulders he rose to his knees and settled his weight on both the
hand at Maarten’s lap and the swollen cock it held. It took little
to maintain a breathy, impatient appearance when he was so
enervated by hate and fear.

“Show me, then, what he taught you,” Maarten
said with a smile, throwing the ghastly memento of Rory’s hair away
from them. “Let me see him in you, not in this.”

Andrew bit his lip and lifted himself,
fighting back angry tears at the casual dismissal of Rory’s
remains. He reached down, lined up Maarten’s cock, and dropped his
weight. And he screamed, letting the fury loose to steer him
through the pain. His hands caught in Maarten’s hair and he pulled,
riding fast and hard while Maarten laughed delightedly beneath him.
There was naught but hatred in Andrew, hatred that burned and gave
him strength enough to give the man what he wanted.

I will kill you. I will destroy you. I
will wipe the laughter from your face and your foulness from this
earth
, Andrew thought, teeth grinding as Maarten pulled him
down to bite his neck. It sent an unwelcome thrill through him and
he arched into it, unable to stop himself. When Maarten gripped his
waist to hold him still and thrust, Andrew groaned, loud and long.
It was pleasure, now, to roll his hips and take the man deeper. He
felt the sweat run down his face, felt bruises as they formed
beneath Maarten’s fingers and teeth, and shuddered in shame at his
own response. He was thrust into so hard it caused his clenched
teeth to snap together, catch his tongue and flood his mouth with
the taste of blood. He saw stars for a moment, the pain of it was
so intense, but it did not cool the fire burning in his groin.

It thrummed through him, carrying him higher
and higher until he shattered, writhing and rocking on Maarten’s
lap. He felt his seed on his stomach, turning the silk wet and
heavy, and then Maarten had his shoulders from behind. He was
forced to sit motionless as Maarten filled him with come. It took a
long time. The man relaxed, loosening his hold only to take his
head and pull it in for a kiss. He found the wound still bleeding
and sucked on Andrew’s tongue to drink the fount.

When Andrew pushed at his shoulders, Maarten
allowed him to pull away. Looking down, he saw Maarten smiling,
blood staining his lips, his teeth, and almost wept. Maarten shoved
in once more and Andrew shuddered.

“Such a magnificent little whore. We will be
happy here, you and I.”

Andrew could not completely stifle his
yawn.

Smoke from the candles burned his eyes and
his throat and he pined for a breath of fresh air. The table, laden
with the most opulent of meals he had ever beheld, swam in his
vision until it was a gilded blur. The sleeves of his banyan fell
over his hands and swallowed him in folds of crimson velvet and
golden thread. It was stifling, too heavy, but it was the only
garment he had been given.

He had no idea what time it was, how long he
had been here. Surely an entire day had passed, for there had been
other meals and lengthy conversations. He had not been allowed to
sleep, not permitted to leave the rooms save to visit the bathing
chamber with Maarten. There Andrew had been scrubbed in steaming
water until his skin was pink and sore, and all the hair from his
neck down had been removed with oil and a small curved blade.
Finally an exotic smelling unguent had been rubbed into his flesh.
Maarten had observed it all with glittering eyes, touching with
propriety, running his fingers across the smoothness at the back of
Andrew’s thighs while he was still spread on the table...but he had
not taken Andrew again.

He was grateful for the reprieve, for he had
bled enough to frighten himself. Maarten had been so pleased to see
the streaks of red on his cock when he’d set Andrew from him that
he’d cooed and cuddled Andrew, pet him like a child afterwards.
He’d run his fingers up and down the crevice of Andrew’s bottom,
smiling each time Andrew winced and expressing great delight at the
feel of his seed leaking from the torn flesh.

Andrew’s nerves were raw and spent from his
utter exhaustion and Maarten’s smothering presence. He hurt, even
as he sat on the plush cushion Maarten had fetched for him. The man
sat beside him at this lavish setting, wearing only his fur robe.
He leaned close, hovering over Andrew’s shoulder at every moment.
He behaved as a besotted bridegroom; kissing Andrew’s hair, his
cheek, even fingers that were brought from Andrew’s lap. “You are
so silent,
lille due
,” Maarten said, directly in his ear.
“What could you be thinking?”

Andrew had been trying not to think, at all.
Now prompted, he turned his head to speak, only to find his mouth
covered and filled with Maarten’s tongue. He tried to twist away
but one large hand settled at the back of his head and pressed him
closer. The heat, his fatigue, and the icy wane of his confidence
made him dizzy. He felt his breaths coming faster, too fast, and
then he had to swallow back his sickness. His fingers rose to
Maarten’s cheeks, digging and pressing. He was released.

“My Lord, please, some air. I need fresh
air,” he said in a rush, forcing his eyes open to meet Maarten’s
curious stare. There was a moment of suspicion, but Andrew let his
fingertips trace over the man’s lips and it faded.

“Fresh air, of course,” Maarten responded, a
smile stealing across his face. He pushed his chair back and
extended a hand. Andrew took it and accepted the assistance, though
as soon as he was on his feet he was swept up against the man’s
chest. “We shall have a walk and I will show you my castle,
yes?”

Nodding, Andrew gave him a small smile and
pushed away from him. “I would like that, thank you.”

Maarten pulled him back, sinking his fingers
into the curve of Andrew’s bottom and holding him tightly. He dug
until Andrew hissed and jerked in his grasp. “Lovely,” he whispered
and bent to take Andrew’s mouth once more. Andrew was so grateful
for the interrupting knock on the chamber door he went weak. If
Maarten had not been holding him, his legs would not have supported
his weight.

“My lord, Salvatore is here,” the servant,
Laurent, called through the wood.

Maarten lifted his head, hovering over
Andrew’s lips. “Hmm, Salvatore,” he murmured, and Andrew felt him
smile. “Yes, yes, this is lovely.” He straightened and said over
his shoulder. “I will see him in my reception room.”

Then he released Andrew and took his hand,
placing it on his arm. As he was led, Andrew asked, “My lord,
should not I remain here, in your private quarters?”

“I wish you to be near to me,” Maarten said,
opening the barred door and allowing Andrew to go through
first.

Andrew was bid to stand beside the large
chair, to Maarten’s left. He was so tired his legs shook. He leaned
against it, throwing one arm over the high back to support himself.
His fingers grazed Maarten’s hair and the man gave him a slow,
sensual smile to display his pleasure. Andrew did not return it,
but Maarten seemed pleased with his bowed head and coy
demeanor.

After several moments the large doors at the
opposite end of the room swung open. Laurent stepped aside and an
entourage of five men entered the room. Their leader was a short,
plump man in long white robes. His shoulders were covered in a
black stole, his head with a wide brimmed, flat black hat. The
chain around his neck looked heavy, as did the cross at his chest.
The four behind him were liveried guards, clad in bright red.
Andrew felt bathed in ice.

The man was an Inquisitor; with him was a
royal Spanish Guard.

“Salvatore, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
Maarten asked his voice pleasant, polite.

“Our contract has yet to be fulfilled,”
Salvatore said. His voice was high-pitched, his tone
disdainful.

“I do not recall a contract with you. Of what
do you speak?”

Salvatore moved closer. “You know very well
of what I speak, de Worrt. Your raiders let one live.”

“One what? Really,
signore
,
specificities, please.”

Andrew angled himself away from Salvatore,
ducking his head to hide his face, and moved closer to Maarten. For
his evil, no matter how great, could not compare with what lay at
the Inquisitor’s fingertips.

“One of the brothers, you imbecile,” the man
hissed. “If one still lives there is the chance that the
machinations will be known.”

Maarten took Andrew’s hand, drew it down to
his mouth. His eyes rested on Andrew as he spoke. “It was only a
handful of men, Salvatore, ten at the most. I assure you, we killed
them all, per your instruction.”

Andrew saw the truth of it in Maarten’s
face.

“Instruction?” Andrew whispered. Maarten’s
smile was slow and sensual.

“There was a boy, not yet one of the
brothers. I was told he was left alive and brought to you,”
Salvatore said, stridently.

“He was, but I did not receive him. He was
stolen from me, by pirates, no less.” Maarten rubbed the backs of
Andrew’s fingers along his jaw. His eyes were bright with what
looked like…glee.

“I knew the men were yours,” Andrew murmured,
only loud enough for Maarten’s ears. There was a shifting in his
perception, as though a stalled gear was slipping into place.

Kissing his fingers once more, Maarten said,
“My men did what you paid for, Salvatore. They met the ship and
took it.”

“This boy must be found! There can be no
trace of our involvement!”

Andrew’s vision blurred. The room spun
dangerously around him before his anger seized his spirit and held
it firm. He yanked his hand away from Maarten and turned to face
the Inquisitor. “Your involvement? You…you caused this? You stole
my family? My life?”

Salvatore stared at him and from the dais
behind him, Maarten laughed louder. “Salvatore was given a task,
lille due
. Root out the pagans, the unrepentant, but do not
call down the council. Eliminate them quietly, he was told. Well,
one can hardly blame the circumstances; they were holy men on a
pilgrimage. Any number of tragedies could have befallen them.”

“Pilgrimage,” Andrew repeated, staring with
growing horror at the Inquisitor. “You sent us there? You sent the
letter?”

“You said you did not have him!” Salvatore
ignored Andrew entirely, pushing past him to approach Maarten.

“I did not, at that time.” Maarten was still
calm, though his amusement shone in his eyes. “Do you wish to kill
him? He stands before you, unarmed. Go ahead, I will not stop
you.”

Andrew acted before anyone could move. He
leapt at the soldier nearest him, drawing the man’s sword from its
scabbard and holding it with a steady hand. “You will not touch
me!” he snarled, retreating until his back touched the wall. “Why?
Why would you…we were so few, so simple. We paid our tithe and we
asked for
nothing
!” He was ice cold with fury, his body
tense and aching.

“Your abbot was a
converso
and a
heretic, and, now that I see you, doubtless a sodomite, as well”
Salvatore said his voice both pious and poisoned.

“Father Armand treated me as a son! He
treated everyone with equal and unending love! He was a Godly man,
a penitent man! He did nothing to warrant your contempt!” Andrew
shouted. “If you had such doubts, why not call the council? Why
perpetrate this falsehood?”

“There is too much conflict in your country.
The tribunal saw fit to leave the clearing of your abbey to me,”
Salvatore answered, “and I was commended for my thoroughness.”

“But
why?
Our holdings were small; we
had nothing. Why not leave us for the Covenanters?”

“You ignorant child! Your holdings were the
fortune of Armand Tedisci, merchant of Bursa and a convert. He left
his wealth in the hands of the Marrano house, not to be touched
until his death.”

Andrew was stunned. This part of Father
Armand’s life was unknown to him; a history neither shared nor
requested, but he knew his mentor’s heart. The abbot had been
simple and spare; nothing of luxury or undue comfort ever touched
his life while he cared for spiritual needs. Or raised a son. “He
left that behind. He did not want it.”

“It was to fall to the brothers upon his end,
to maintain that ridiculous pile of rocks he called an abbey. It
belongs to the Church and I—we would have it, use it to glorify
God,” Salvatore crossed himself.

Andrew felt sick. His voice was raspy, thick
with misery. “All of this, the needless deaths of good men, the
ship’s crew and captain, his wife…all of them dead because you
wanted his coin?”

“Coin, my dove, is the bedrock of our
civilization,” Maarten said, rising from his throne. “You yourself
wished for a spring, unending and prosperous. Now you have it, with
me.”

“You seem to have found your way, none the
worse for wear,” Salvatore mused and he smiled, his eyes travelling
the length of Andrew’s body. He took a step closer.

Andrew slashed the air before him. “Aye! As
if I had a choice. As if I had any other path to follow!”

The soldiers closed in around Salvatore,
belatedly, but he waved them away. He was appraising Andrew,
lingering on his face, on the opulence of his robe and the form
beneath it. “There’s no call for violence, boy. You need not defend
your actions, for your fear must have been great.”