KNIGHT OF CARLOVAIN, CHAPTER 8
"Dealing with the Devil"
By Tommyhawk1@AOL.COM
Fediresta after dark took on a near-ghostly quality. Save for the scattered lights that crept through unshuttered windows (and these were few for the weather was chill, a wind blew from the ocean, bitingly frigid and promising winter soon) and the occasional will-o-the-wisp appearance of a torch denoting a passing group of men moving about their own business, the streets were lit only by the stars and a moon that could not make it down the slopes of these towering houses all around.
In the darkness thus concealing them, Andrew and Charles made their plans. Charles would go and fetch his horse from the alley where he had tethered it ("If it still remains there." Charles admitted wryly, "and has not found itself a new owner by now.") and from there go to the King as if newly arrived in Fediresta. He would not do or say anything to indicate that he had the letters until he was able to get the King alone, or mostly alone. Andrew gave him a memory as a password, to let the King know that Andrew had indeed sent Charles to him as a messenger, their first time at the well and how he had fainted dead away upon learning the King's identity. Since he and the King cherished that as a private thing, it could only have come from Andrew.
Andrew himself would go to the "Fisher's Wife" tavern and seek out Renaud, taking a room there under the name of "Ananias." If Charles met with Renaud, he would give the name as a password to Renaud, and Renaud would thenceforward be their go-between, for his monk's robe would give him easy entrance and exit to many places....
These were all fine plans, and perhaps they would have worked, but when the fates have turned on a man, it seems he is never given a chance for plans. Perhaps some prudish goodwife complained about the two young nobles engaged in lewd acts behind her house. Perhaps the streets were simply crawling with men searching for them, and the town was small enough to let them cover every house and alley. Perhaps their flight had been observed and some citizen had pointed out the path to the searchers.
All that mattered was that a force of four men, the Archbishop's men in their blue and gold tunics, came around the corner towards their alley, and in the light of the torch they bore, Andrew's red clothing shone out like a lighthouse beacon.
"There he is!" one of the guards called out.
Andrew thought fast, throwing away their plans so carefully made. He hissed to Charles. "I will stand my ground. You must run, now!" Not giving Charles a chance, he threw an arm around Charles' shoulder, thrust him thus along the path of escape out of the alley's other end, and turned with sword whispering from its sheath, ready to spend his life here, in this foul place, if it could but buy Charles the precious moments and anonymity he needed to escape!
He was rushed and soon surrounded, since this time he made no effort to run himself, he was soon fencing with swords held in a permanent parrying position, blocking his thrusts and cuts as they came near, but otherwise not threatening him. Soon the four was six, and then ten, and Andrew's arm, aching from the constant clash of metal, was surrounded with golden crosses like so many fenceposts, the silver barbs of swords pointed at him like the stakes at the bottom of a dry defensive moat, and the circle closed in upon him.
"Yield, Sir Andrew, or we shall draw your blood." one of the men said. "The Archbishop has chosen to spare your life if that is possible, but I will not let you splash our own about like Christmas grog upon these alley walls."
Andrew looked down the alley where Charles had fled, but he saw of course nothing.
"Don't look to your comrade for help, he fled like the dog that he was." one of the other men said.
So Charles had escaped. Andrew tried not to breath a sigh of gratitude to the heavens, and turned down his head so that his grin of relief was muffled in the shadows. "I yield." he muttered in what he hoped was a surly tone.
He was grabbed, his sword clattering to the cobblestones, and he was roughly marched away with tight fists wrapped around his arms on either side and a swordpoint jabbing now and then at his buttocks to speed his progress yet the more.
"Take me to the King!" Andrew demanded as soon as he thought to demand as a noble should. "I am a member of the nobility and my case must be heard by the King."
"He'll hear your case, when he can spare the time." one of the Guards said. "He's a very busy man, you know."
Andrew sputtered and cursed as well as he could, but his mind was truly not on this captivity. Charles would need time to get to the King...oh, God, his life was nothing if only, in return for it, Charles had not been identified and could get the message to the King unimpeded!...and then, well, what would be would be.
He was not surprised to be taken into a boxed-over prison wagon and chained to the walls inside, and thence carted off like so much human garbage. Nor was he surprised when he arrived, to there be roughly handled and cast into a dark, foul-smelling place. He would have been surprised only if he hadn't been.
He sat and waited for morning, which came with furtive fingers through the grille. He stood up and peered as well as he could at the narrow slits of windows, far too narrow to escape through, barely enough to permit an arm to squeeze outside, but even that was denied him for he was shackled by a short length of chain that kept him from over half the cell, and out of reach of the brief sunlight. This grate looked to the northeast, for the sun reached into the cell at a sharp angle, crept spedily to the ceiling as it narrowed to wafer-thin lines, and then vanished and was gone in less than an hour's time, and he was in a dusky deep twilight of insufficient light.
The door to his cell began suddenly clattering with metallic sounds, then it opened and a guard came in, heavily burdened with chainlink armor, a heavy red beard upon him further covering his helmeted head. In his hand he bore a tankard and a plate.
"Good morning, my Lord." the man said in passable but halting French. "I bring you food." His speech had a lilting quality to it Andrew could not identify.
"I want to speak to the Archbishop." Andrew said.
The man looked dumbly. Andrew repeated himself, slower. Still incomprehension.
"Your Master." Andrew said.
"Ah!" the man understood. "I tell him. You eat now."
It seems he would be watched while he ate, Andrew picked up the plate of meat and bread brought to him and sniffed the tankard. Not a bad quality wine!
"It is good food, yes?" the guard asked him.
"Yes." Andrew said.
"It is for you, a Lord." the man said. "You eat, drink now."
Andrew did, the food was stone cold but otherwise not hard on the palate. The bread was dry and Andrew was thirsty, he soon finished off the flagon of heavily watered wine.
"I bring you more wine." the guard said, taking the flagon. He went out and the door to Andrew's cell was left open and apparently untended. Not that this was any danger, for Andrew's legs were stoutly shackled by his ankles to the wall by a short length of chain.
The man returned, gave Andrew the tankard with almost amiable good humor. "It is good wine, ya?"
"Yes." Andrew said. "Thank you."
"The Master says to keep you well. You only be here a couple days." And with that ominous news, the man left.
The day drew on slowly. Andrew napped as well as he could, though every sound around him would cause him to jerk awake, in fear and in hope. He was begrimed by the foul place and in much need of a bath. And the day dragged on, and on, in uneventful, uncomfortable tedium.
With only an hour before dusk, the Archbishop paid him a call.
Much like Lord Montaigne, he was a small, thin man with a cocksure attitude, carrying his theocratic garb like a personal heraldic device. He was surprisingly a good bit older than Lord Montaigne.
He wore a biretta which gave his already angular face a severe look, and his thick eyebrows formed a shelf below which his eyes peered harshly at Andrew. "Why have you come to see the King?" he said without preamble or courtesy.
Andrew bit back the comments he wanted to make, grand, brave things that would only alert the Archbishop that, while he had been caught, he had not been stopped. For Charles, for the King's sake, he said instead, "I demand to know why I have been brought here. If I am accused of treason, take me before the King so that I may plead my innocence."
"You are not guilty of treason." the Archbishop said with a wave of his hand that indicated the matter was unimportant. "I merely had to give some reason to my men so that they would pursue you the more readily."
"I shouldn't think your men would need any excuse to pursue anyone." Andrew said with the venom finally being allowed to come out.
"You dislike my mercenaries? I have cultivated them from other lands because none of the local lords would permit me to recruit from their own peasantry, and I wished skilled fighters, not antisocial bullies who are tired of plowing the fields. Besides, they are a wonderful excuse for communicating with the Emperor."
Andrew tried to keep his face placid, but his emotions must have shown through, for the Archbishop continued, "Yes, I know that you know about this and came here to warn the King. I assume that some recent papers of mine that have been stolen have come into your possession in some manner, and so you left your father's deathbed to come warn the King."
Andrew saw no reason to dissemble any longer. "Why do you betray your oath of allegiance to the King, then? Some hope of putting your brother back on the throne as Lord Protector once more?"
The Archbishop laid back his head and laughed. "You think I want to rejoin Carlovain to the Grand Duchy of Burgundy? The Duchy is doomed, Charles the Bold has embarked upon a campaign to expand his territory and in doing so has alienated French, English and the Roman Emperor all at once. No, I act not to abandon Carlovain, but to save it."
"How?" Andrew asked, genuinely curious now.
"Because the Grand Duchy is doomed. King Louis of France is sending the Swiss aid in helping the cities of Lorraine, and the Emperor aids them as well. The Grand Duchy is sandwiched between two enemies and will be squeezed flat ere long. When Charles took Nancy, he signed his own death warrant, and that of the Grand Duchy of Burgundy. Even his proffering of his daughter to the Emperor's son availed him naught."
"And what matters this to Carlovain?" Andrew demanded. He knew the political situation as well as any, a nobleman had to know these things, but hadn't given it this much analysis.
"Because the world still considers Carlovain to be part of the Grand Duchy. By dealing with the Emperor now, I can turn us into a truly independent part of the Holy Roman Empire."
"Then why not let the King deal with the Emperor?" Andrew asked, still not seeing.
"Because our beloved Phillippe V is considered merely a lackey of the Grand Duke." the Archbishop said. "You may call yourself the son of a Duke, but no other country in Europe recognizes that title. By joining the Holy Roman Empire when Charles falls, we can get the Emperor to confer proper noble rank upon the landholding families of Carlovain in gratitude. That is a title the world will recognize."
Andrew saw it then. "And if the throne of Carlovain must be emptied in the process, the Emperor can show his gratitude in another way to the man who gave him the land without a fight. You would break your most holy oath, deal with the devil and gain the throne for yourself."
"He will need someone to administer this land on his behalf." the Archbishop agreed.
"A Lord Protector." Andrew sighed.
"If that is what you wish to call him. And if I also bring the Church of Carlovain back to the Catholic Church at the same time, why shouldn't I be the natural choice to administer these lands during the many years of transition, with my nephew to step in when I am done?"
"It matters naught to me what you would call yourself, all that matters is that he cannot sit upon the throne of Carlovain without the removal of the King that I have pledged my loyalty to." Andrew said. "So I must oppose you. Give me back my sword and I shall fight you on the field of honor."
The Archbishop smirked. "I shall do no such thing. The Code Duello is a code for young fools. No, I shall merely hold you prisoner until the King may be safely taken away. Then you may choose whether to pledge oath to the new ruler, or join him in the line of the executioner's block. Neither shall matter to me."
The Archbishop left. Andrew quaked in anger, then grew thoughtful. The conversation had held no value to it, the Archbishop had told more than he had asked of Andrew. Unless...the Archbishop wanted to draw Andrew out. If he had blurted out some bravely foolhardy phrase about his companions...but he had not...had he?
It occurred to him that during the entire conversation, the Archbishop had watched his face carefully. Seeing how his words affected Andrew. Judging from his emotional reactions the true threat Andrew held for him.
How much, then, had he given away? Dear Lord in Heaven, had he ever said the word "we" in his defiance? He didn't recall saying that, but he couldn't be sure. Not for certain.
While the Archbishop had watched Andrew's face, he had told Andrew of his plan. Hoping the Emperor would step in and then just hand over all of Carlovain to his family? Hardly very likely, every kingdom in Europe had young lords aplenty in need of lands. Or perhaps the Archbishop had promised things he hadn't mentioned. A real dealing with the devil.
He had to escape. Break in to the King's chambers like a thief, warn him bodily of his own.
But how?
The guard of the morning brought him in his food once more, and Andrew immediately looked carefully at him. How could he persuade this man to help him? If he could? He seemed almost pathetically eager to please, treating Andrew more as a guest than a prisoner.
"I bring you food and drink." he said again. Andrew was able to spot his accent; a Scandinavian accent, probably Swedish. The King had spent two years embroiled in helping the King of Denmark with his civil war in Sweden, some Danish and Swedish warriors had necessarily ended up in Carlovain for one reason or other.
"You are very kind to me." Andrew said in a kindly tone, and the man beamed. Andrew smiled himself. "What is your name?'
"I am Valbotg."
"Valbotg." Andrew stuttered over the name, and Valbotg carefully and patiently corrected him until he got it correct. "What kind of name is that?" Andrew asked.
"It means big mountain." the man smiled and flexed his arms.
Andrew laughed. "It fits you, then." Andrew said, laughed then, as if in passing. "You come from the civil war in Sweden?"
"My home there is." Valbotg said, beaming fatuously.
"Why did you come here?" Andrew said sympathetically. "Did you lose your home?"
"No." Valbotg said.
"Why did you come here, then?"
Valbotg looked down, bashful, then back up. "I hear stories."
"Stories about Carlovain?"
"Ya, stories."
"What kind of stories?"
Valbotg just grinned.
"Oh." Andrew said. Maybe he had a way here, after all. "Did the stories turn out to be true?"
"Ya." Valbotg said. "True enough. Plenty fun."
"Yes." Andrew said, letting his eyes visibly roam over Valbotg's large body. "I can imagine you did have lots of fun."
"You've been very kind to me." Andrew said softly.
"I get you the food and drink special." Valbotg admitted.
"I know that." Andrew said, still softly, almost a whisper. "And I am...very grateful."
Valbotg caught the underlying tension in the whisper, and he smiled. "I close the door now." he said. Andrew watched as his broad shoulders rippled as he moved, and as he closed the door while still staying inside, as he turned around. "Now we private are."
"That's good." Andrew said. "Now...come here."
And he wiped his mouth free of the grease of his meal with the back of his hand in a slow, languid gesture.
Valbotg walked over to Andrew, his chain mail glinting off the small light from the windows. "Now we fun have, ya?"
"Ya, ya!" Andrew smiled and stepped into those massive arms. Valbotg's whiskers tickled as he kissed Andrew, a smooth, glossy feeling quite unlike the prickly feel he could when the lips bore only a closely-shaved mustache like his own. The beard was like resting his chin against a feather pillow, lush and soft and pliant. Though cased in metal and leather gloves, the arms around him were strong and alive, pressing on his back and pulling him against the cold steel on the chest.
Andrew kissed those lips for some time, then Valbotg seemed to get impatient and pushed hard on his shoulders, and Andrew dropped to his knees. The leather girthet was easy enough to remove, untying it from either side, and let it fall, only it caught in the metal leggings and remained hanging down, a cup-shaped concavity of leather that gave off a rich aroma of moistened leather and raunchy man.
Andrew took the still-soft prong into his hand and caressed it. It was steamy hot from its captivity inside the leather pouch, sticking together all rolled around almost like a sweet roll. Andrew gently pried the cock loose from the scrotum where it had melded itself in, leaving behind an indentation in its own shape, and reached out and lapped it with his tongue, gently moistening it.
"I help you with that." Valbotg said. Andrew wondered if he planned to hawk spit into his palm and rub it on, but instead Valbotg picked up the flagon of watered wine he had brought for Andrew's supper and poured it over his cock, drenching Andrew's hand and arm with the light, fruity, flavorful wine that stung slightly from the alcohol it contained.
Andrew didn't dawdle, he took this wine-flavored dick into his mouth and he sucked on it, and Valbotg moaned though whether it was from the stinging alcohol or Andrew's mouth, Andrew couldn't tell. He sucked the cock dry and then began to apply his own liquid to the hefty organ, nursing and urging it to climb up and swell and fatten in his mouth.
Slowly, he succeeded, and Valbotg sat down upon the rough, bare board that was the only bed the place afforded, and Andrew knelt over and stuffed that massive prod into his mouth and worked it with his every expertise.
"That is good, that is good." Valbotg said to him. "You do it more."
Andrew obeyed, working his mouth around and swirling his lips as he pulled up the foreskin, then again as he dove back down to bury this stiff prick once more. Valbotg now began to moan out in earnest, his big, sturdy, Nordic body moved easily under its grievous weight of the chain armor that encased it, loving the way that Andrew coaxed his pleasure out of his pud, and the thick dong became a steel-hard rod encased in velvety foreskin that Andrew worked and pulled and pushed back over the large tool, and Valbotg moaning more and more all the while.
Valbotg's cock became so hot and hard that Andrew felt sure he was about to hit his climax, when Valbotg pulled up and stood up. "Now I do you." he proclaimed.
That big monster? For the King.... "Yes, now you do me." Andrew agreed. He turned around and tugged at his tights, the big hairy paws grabbed his hips and yanked them down for him. Andrew bent over and felt that soft hairy face bury itself between his buttocks, that sturdy tongue dug in and probed at his anus.
Andrew gasped, sighed. He'd never had this before, it felt great! That soft tongue-tip was awakening nerves he'd never thought about before, sensitive, soft, little-touched and little-stimulated nerves that clamored now with their signals of joy at that plump, soft invader into their dark realm.
Valbotg's hand found Andrew's prick and it was hard and waiting for him. Valbotg just grabbed Andrew's cock, but Andrew was able to buck his hips back and forth and send his dick back and forth in that callous-horned palm. It felt like he was fucking an old piece of cow leather that had dried up in a cylinder, but his cock wasn't feeling fussy, not with that wonderful pink stiletto poking at his butthole and exciting it to clangor and clamor for more!
When Valbotg stood up, Andrew was disappointed, but that hard prick made up somewhat for the darting, dancing tongue it had replaced, that thick cockhead pushed into his ass and Andrew just sighed, and his body docilely opened up for it. He was crammed full, totally full, of this hard Scandinavian dong, and it felt wonderful. His body accommodated it, welcomed it, danced around it joyfully, feeling and moving with it as it pushed it and then pulled out, only to plunge back in once more, and his body was alive, alive!
Valbotg's huge hands held Andrew firmly at the hips, those muscled hips slammed that wide prong in and out of him, and Andrew groaned only in appreciation. He reached down and pumped his own dong while Valbotg fucked him heartily, loving the experience even though he had initiated it from the basest and most selfish of motives!
He did not have to pretend his lust, though he'd been prepared to, his body adored this Teutonic lover, he felt his very self build with heat from within, felt his skin tingle with electric joy all over his body, felt the rising white, clashing pleasure of climax as it surged and pulsed around his cock.
"Oh, oh, I'm going to come!" Andrew groaned out.
"Ya, you do it now!" Valbotg grunted. "Squirt it out."
"Oh, oh, oh!" Andrew groaned. "Oh, oh, uh, HUH-GUUHHH!"
He felt his jism spray out from his cock, slicing its way to freedom like a cold rod of iron driving out from his body, and the foul odors of the place were dowsed so briefly by the headier aroma of male rut as he squirted and spunk rushed out to splash upon the filthy floor.
Valbotg was hunching at him harder than ever now. "Now you finish, is my turn." he announced.
"Yeah, come on!" Andrew begged him. "Shoot it in me, hard! Come on, hard, now, now!"
"Ya, oh, ya, ya, uh-hunkh!" Valbotg's prick jetted his jizz into Andrew's bowels, a thick, gooey, hefty load of sperm that sizzled his insides and seared his body from the inside. Valbotg was a snorting beast as he humped and thrust his hips frenetically into Andrew while he pumped his jism, until it was all done, and emptied and panting like a team of horses after a hard day's work pulling the plow, he was done and held still and quiet against Andrew, that still-hard dong still binding them together, a shackle of human lust.
Done, Valbotg pulled out his cock, a suprisingly difficult thing for him to do, for that cockhead, that thick, bulbous cockhead, had seemed to find a permanent home inside Andrew, but Valbotg jerked hard and it popped free and Andrew felt the slimy jism follow it out in a gush.
"That was good." Valbotg said as he stuffed his cock back into that leather pouch, still all sticky and jizz-tipped from their session, binding the girthet back around his waist. His chest still heaving slightly, he said, "This is why I come here. This is why I leave my family and come here."
"That's nice." Andrew said. Then, as if he'd just thought of it. "My own family doesn't know I'm here."
"That very bad is." the man said consolingly. "No one bring you blanket for cold weather. Snow soon." He seemed genuinely concerned for Andrew's welfare, the thought of him shivering in the unheated room in the dead of winter.
"Yes, I know." Andrew said. "That's what I was thinking, how cold it got in here last night. And it will only get colder. Could you get a message out to my brother?"
"Maybe I could, ya." the man said dubiously. "Ask the Master I will if I can."
"No!" Andrew said sharply, then softer, "No. Not tell the Master. Just go and tell my brother I am in prison here, and could he come and see me." He smiled enticingly. "I'd be very grateful to you."
The man thought about it. He looked at Andrew. "I see no hurt in telling a brother you are in prison. Family has the right to know. Where is his house?"
"We don't have a house here." Andrew tried not to gush out his relief. "He will be staying at an inn called the "Fisher's Wife." He took a deep breath and said a silent prayer of his words. "His name...his name is Ananias."
THE END OF CHAPTER EIGHT
TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT CHAPTER