Squire of Carlovain

By moc.loa@1kwahymmoT

Published on Jan 2, 2001

Gay

KNIGHT OF CARLOVAIN, CONCLUSION

By "Tommyhawk1@AOL.COM

When Valbotg left on his mission of mercy on Andrew's behalf, Andrew felt wonderfully confident. Such a simple yet effective thing, to send Valbotg out to inquire about his brother at the inn! When told that Ananias had not yet arrived, he would leave a message with the innkeeper and probably even inquire among the patrons there, spreading his news along the way. Inns were hotbeds of gossip and the trading of news and information, and Valbotg would go there when it would be crowded with the evening's revelers; soon the word that he was in the Archbishop's prison would be circulating and would necessarily reach the ears of either Renaud when he went to the inn, or Charles when he went to give news to Andrew...and even the King.

Yes, it would get word to his friends what had befallen him. All he had to do now was wait. He slept despite the foulness of his quarters with peace in his heart.

Valbotg returned the next morning with his food and stood while Andrew ate heartily. Done, Andrew handed him the empty plate--he'd felt hungry and eaten every morsel--and looked up, saw the question in Valbotg's eyes, and smiled, stood and took Valbotg to his arms once more.

"I am glad to have a friend like you, if I must be here." he said to Valbotg's ears, caressing that cold mesh-metal-clad body.

"Glad am I to be your friend." Valbotg said.

"Had my brother arrived at the inn?" Andrew said, trying to keep it casual. If word to his brother was all he had sought, he would be eager for the answer, but not shakingly nervous.

"No, not yet." Valbotg informed him. "I spoke to everyone I could, including a monk who said that he would come to minister to you if he could until your brother arrived."

Andrew almost collapsed in relief. Renaud; it had to be Renaud. "Was it Brother Eserel?"

"Ya, that was he." Valbotg said. "A very kindly man who was most upset to hear you were here."

"He would be, he...is a worthy man of the cloth." Andrew said.

Valbotg's hands reached for Andrew's buttocks and pressed him tightly against Valbotg's own turgid crotch, a lump of stiffened flesh, and Andrew reached for those hairy lips and kissed Valbotg ardently, feeling his cock fill and press in its turn against Valbotg's.

"I trust my guard is seeing to your comfort as he was ordered." the Archbishop's wry voice interposed.

Valbotg released him hastily and turned, bowed to his liege lord. "Most Reverend Lord, I..."

"Cease your attempts to explain yourself, for your actions are most clear of themselves." the Archbishop said. "You need not stay here, my own guards will suffice for the remainder of my visit here."

Valbotg left the room and the Archbishop turned his attentions to Andrew. "I see that your captivity is not as large a burden on you as it is on some. I came to bring you news you may not have heard in your headlong ride across Carlovain to come here." he said. "It arrived by boat yesterday from Heslov."

"What is that?" Andrew frowned. Why would the Archbishop want to provide him with any news of any kind?

"Your father passed away two days ago." The Archbishop essayed a small smile. "A shame that you will not be able to attend your father's funeral, is it not? They will seal his body into a casket to wait for you. I wonder how long it will be before your mother goes on without you?"

Andrew heard all of his words, but they receded into the distance. His father, gone. He'd known his father was dying...but still. He sat down on his bunk and gave himself to his grief.

"Yes, I thought that would dim your ardor for my guards." the Archbishop said. "They speak of how quickly you give yourself to every man who looks your way, though I confess I had thought that was idle gossip until I saw it with my own eyes. Surely the King could obtain a more steadfast lover for his dalliances, I would think."

"Valbotg has been kind to me." Andrew flared. He wanted to hurt this arrogant man, with words since he had no sword. The need overcame even his grief at this moment...or was its substitute. "One may find a good man in a mercenary's troop....just as one may find a scoundrel in the garb of an Archbishop!"

That hit the Archbishop, all right, his face deepened as he scowled. "Filthy Neresterii scum!" he snarled at Andrew. "Sodomites and catamites, every one of you! We French did you a favor, coming to this land!"

"Do you mock your ancestors so easily?" Andrew returned. "I know your lineage as well as you. The first Montaigne Duke of Heslov took a Neresterii bride, as did his son. So did most of the French lords created by Phillippe I. I have spoken with Frenchmen, they do not consider you to be French any more than they consider me to be English, though I have more English blood in me than you have French!"

It felt good, hurting the Archbishop with his words, but now the price came, for Andrew was unarmed and his feet shackled on a short chain, the Archbishop stepped up and backhanded him across the face, hard! The heavy ring of office he wore cut Andrew's cheek sharply though the blow itself was scarcely harder than a slap, he turned and bent with the blow, and felt wetness on his cheek, but no more.

"I will not keep you the more." the Archbishop said, the words tight as a rope. "Know that you live only because I may have need of you. The moment that need is gone...so are you!"

And the Archbishop left.

Andrew sat back down on his bed. His father...dead. And him not even there to hold his mother and comfort his wife who had been so favored of his father, and his son, bewildered at the mourning going on around him.... Curse the Archbishop! He would stab that fiend right through the center of the cross he dared wear embroidered upon his chest!

Valbotg re-entered the cell and, seeing Andrew in sorrow, simply sat beside him and held him while Andrew cried, then left him alone. And so in slow mourning, Andrew passed the day.

There followed some days in the cell like this, Andrew wondering first what had gone wrong with his plan. Surely either Renaud or Charles would have learned of his imprisonment now. Surely they would come rescue him at any moment! Surely....

He questioned Valbotg to the point where the pretense of the brother wore impossibly thin. Valbotg was kind about it but Andrew could tell that he had realized Andrew's lie and use of him, and while he would not tell the Archbishop, neither would he help Andrew the more. When Andrew spurned Valbotg's advances as a result, the guard was changed to another, and he didn't even see Valbotg any more.

Nearly a week had gone by since his imprisonment, and Andrew had nearly given up all hope, believing now that his message had gone to naught, when the Archbishop again visited his cell. This time, fury was etched upon the cruel man's features.

"You!" He shook in fury. Then he backhanded Andrew, hard! This time it was no mere petulance on the Archbishop's part, he was angry. Andrew crouched back, hampered beyond any effective resistance by the shackles on his feet, he balled his fists and determined not to bear another like that.

The Archbishop shivered in his rage, then he said, "The King went out hunting with the Count and his men this morning, traveling north of the city." Andrew looked his query at this minor information. "He has not returned. The Count's men were diverted by the hunt, and when they looked about themselves once again, the King and his Guards were gone."

Andrew felt a sigh of relief. The warning had gotten through, the King was safe! He rose up and moved toward the Archbishop. "So your plans for Carlovain come to nothing." he said. "With the King warned and out of your reach, you can only cause another civil war if you act now. If you will end this and beg the King's pardon, I am certain he will not be overly harsh in his punishment."

He had been careless in moving forward, another hand was coming at him and he blocked it only partially. Too long in shackles in the cell, unable to move effectively, it had left him feeling as weak and feeble as if he had been ill. He reeled from the impact, stumbled back onto the cot.

"You were the one who brought him the message from Merlemagnists!" the Archbishop accused him. "You warned the King!"

"How could I have?" Andrew said disingenuously. "I have been here all the time. I have not been allowed near the King."

"You carried the message, then gave it to that blond-haired, beastly son of the Marquis of Lesleran to give the King." the Archbishop fumed. "You let yourself be captured in order to let him escape with the papers."

How did the Archbishop know all this? Perhaps the Royal Chamberlain had overheard and warned him. No real matter, he knew. "Very well." Andrew said. "I did indeed carry the papers across Carlovain, but they were your own words. You condemned yourself."

"But with the King in flight, probably north into the Neresterii lands, I have no further need of you." the Archbishop said. "Enjoy your night." he turned. "On the morning, you shall die."

Andrew was left alone, and as if in answer to his wondering as to the hour, the light dimmed. Dusk had come, and with it, the end of day.

Surely the King, now warned, would send him aid. Perhaps Renaud would insist on leading an expedition to help him. Maybe Charles would even join in.

Surely.

Perhaps.

Maybe.

The long, long night turned slowly into dawn. Dawn was the hour for executions in Carlovain, the time when life was said to be weakest, and death rose and walked about as the forces of nature were briefly caught between light and darkness, with darkness holding more powerful sway. It harked back to pagan rituals of the dawn, but the custom remained, as the sun rose, they came for Andrew.

Into the cold morning, his hands bound behind his back with rope, the shackles replaced with others that hobbled his walk but let him shuffle forward in halting steps, Andrew was taken out of the cell. Through the front door he had seen only barely before, he saw that the courtyard was lined with the Archbishop's Guards. Beyond this line were the townspeople of Fediresta, come to see a lord die. Andrew looked about...surely help would come!...but there was none to be seen. He rose up the steps with difficulty, a guard helping him raise his feet a sufficient height to go up the steps. And there on top was a block, and a burly man with an axe, hooded with black. And Count Ernaud was there, in obvious alliance with the Archbishop.

His hour had come, Andrew realized. He must die now.

He felt despair rise up...and with it, resignation. Well, if nothing was left to choose but the manner of death, he would take it well. He raised his head up high, proud, walked with steps as dignified as he could to the block.

There is a ritual to an execution, the blessing said for the man to die, the pronouncement by the judge--here the Archbishop--and then the condemned is allowed a chance to say a few words. Then they lay his head down on the block and it is chopped off.

Too quickly for Andrew, the first parts were over. "Say your piece." grumbled the Archbishop as he gave way to Andrew.

Andrew looked out over the crowd. What was there to say? No friend could hear him. Brave words sounded hollow to his inner ear.

He took in a deep breath. "Long live the King!" he called out at the top of his voice. "Long live the King!"

It was a poor set of last words, but it was all his heart held. He lowered his head and turned to the block. Rough hands forced him into place. Pressing his head down upon the block, turned to one side so that his neck would be more exposed. As ritual demanded, he was looking upon the Archbishop.

To his surprise, the Archbishop knelt down with him. "I swore I would see you die." he snarled into Andrew's face. "The last thing you see is going to be my face, looking right at you. The face of a Montaigne, and justice for my family, come at last."

He looked up, nodded to the executioner, and then back at Andrew.

His last look, the Archbishop's triumphantly angry face. Yet Andrew could not bring himself to close his eyes! It would be his very last look, his last vision of the world. Let not it end in darkness!

Cruelly livid eyes, a smirk on the face, anger and hatred towards Andrew. And then...the executioner's axe fell, but on the Archbishop!

The Archbishop saw the axe leveled towards his own neck, slicing horizontally towards him rather than straight down at Andrew, and he made the first start of a move away, and the axe found his neck. Razor sharp, it cut cleanly through and the headless body of the Archbishop fell out of Andrew's narrow view.

He felt a tug at the ropes binding his arms, a knife was cutting him free! The axe flew again in the general astonished silence at what had occurred, this time severing the shackles of his feet.

Andrew needed no more. Rescue had come! He clambered to his feet, the heavy iron circles at his ankles impeding him, but he was ready to run all day with them on his feet if he had to.

He looked up into an incipient chaos. The Guards were only now reacting to the death of their lord. But the crowd around them...the weather of early morning was chill in this seaside town. Most of the viewers wore cloaks, and now those cloaks were flung aside and a field of swords rose up around them.

There were scattered fights here and there as some Guards, more foolish or more frightened or more ready to shed blood in battle, fought, but to all intents and purposes, the battle was over before it began.

Andrew was bewildered, standing on the block which was to have been his doom, and instead it was the crowd of the Archbishop's soldiers about him who were suddenly the captives.

"We meet again." Count Ernaud said to Andrew.

Andrew looked upon the man, whom he remembered only as a cruel, arrogant young man. "I owe you my life." he said. "I am grateful."

"I did it not for you." the Count growled. "Not even for my brother who came to me with news of your capture and pleaded with me for your release."

"Then why?" Andrew said. "You have no reason to help me."

"I didn't do it to help you, I did it to help myself!" the Count said. "I have the domain of Fediresta, was I to throw that away to get vengeance upon the very King who put me here? Would you have done so, you who are now Duke of Heslov?"

"Of course not." Andrew said. "But I am grateful just the same."

"And I'm grateful to you, for bringing those papers. All we had to go on was rumor and suspicion, until those papers were laid into the King's hands. I couldn't accuse my father and older brother of treason without that, for all their schemes against me. But now lay your gratitude before the one who has earned it; I would have let your head go flying!"

Andrew turned to follow the Count's pointing hand and there... "Your Majesty!" he said and held the cloaked figure tightly.

"Steady, my beloved friend, steady!" the King chided him.

Andrew held him tightly, just the same. "I come to save you, and instead you save me, Sire." he breathed.

"We saved each other, for now with the papers you brought, we have the tools to take the last of the traitors from among us." the King said. "I can finish the job started five years ago with you at Winseran Point."

Guards cleared the way for the King and Andrew to the coach waiting for them. Once they were seated within its interior, Andrew said. "Sire, I thought I was going to die." He said this, preparatory to once again thank the King for his salvation.

"Yes." the King said, "And I have only one thing to say on that, my dearest friend.."

"What is it, Sire?"

"Couldn't you have come up with a better set of last words than that?"

Andrew laughed and embraced his lord and his lover.

Back in the King's chamber, this time as an honored guest, Andrew was given the chance to cleanse his body which had been sorely fouled over the last week in captivity. Once done with his bath and with a hot meal inside of him, he was suddenly, sorely tired. The King was busy with his ministers as they planned how to deal with the remnants of the rebellion, now without its leader, so Andrew said simply to the servant set to care for him. "Take me to a bed and let me sleep through the day if I can. I don't wish to be wakened unless the King calls for me."

He was taken to the royal chamber, red satin trimmed with ermine, and ensconced within a comfort his body had come to expect and had done without for the past weeks, he fell soundly asleep.

When he awoke, it was well into the afternoon, but it wasn't the sun which had roused him. The King had joined him in the bed, and the bare flesh of his sovereign was pressing against him.

Andrew sighed happily. "We are together once more." he breathed.

"Always." the King promised him. "For so long as I have breath within me."

"I have missed you." Andrew said as his hands traveled over the gentle, regal flesh. The King's body felt cool--that was the oncoming winter--the skin was taut upon his body, the muscles making discrete bumps upon their allotted portions, rather than flowing smoothly across his body. It felt less like stroking a person and more like stroking a sculpture made of marble, save that this skin was not cold, uncaring marble, but more like sun-warmed sand you ran your hand across in languid comfort as the sun bronzed your body. Like a last taste of summer.

Andrew reached his lips for his King's and was surprised to feel his body still was reluctant to move about. It had been held still too long, his body needed more rest, and then time to slowly stretch back out the muscles truncated by the enforced rest of the shackles.

"Sire, I fear that I shall not be a proper lover for you this day." Andrew said sorrowfully. "My body has deteriorated in it captivity, and is averse to move for me once again. I fear I was used more grievously than I had thought, bound as I was."

The King only smiled kindly. "Then we shall not put any undue strain upon you until you have recovered." he said. "Lie upon the bed and permit me to labor for your pleasure."

Andrew obeyed and the King's lips were avid upon his lips, then across his cheek, and down his breast. Andrew felt those lips clutch at one of his nipples and nurse most ardently at it, the tongue adding its counterpoint to the caress, so much that he wished his body would give forth milk and so nourish the hungry mouth fastened upon him. And the King's head moved on, nestling between his breasts, kissing the hollow concave there, Andrew's heart pounding in his chest in an attempt to jump out and kiss back those gentle guests of his body.

And the King moved on, and now Andrew's ribs were being licked by the King's tongue, long strokes along the bones there, invisible and unknown to Andrew until this moment, when the King's kisses brought them to life by his touching of them.

And the King moved on and now Andrew's navel was being probed by that mischievous tongue, which dug in so deeply that Andrew felt his navel indent the more from the pressure, the tongue like a warm jewel placed there to be snuggled into the tight oval of flesh and cling there ever afterwards.

And the King moved on, and now that tongue was exploring the dense brush of his pubic hair, sliding among the slender reeds of the tangled hairs there, trodding over them when it had to, but mostly keeping its tip onto his flesh beneath it, and again Andrew's body, a neglected part brought to life, keened its pleasure.

And the King moved on and now his mouth climbed the throne of Andrew's manhood with all dignity, and sat upon its crest, and like the royal robes of a high court that rippled down the steps around the throne, the King's lips rippled down the sides of Andrew's shaft, and covered him in their velvety warmth.

Andrew could lay still no longer, though his body still resented his demands upon it, he had the King's body angled out on the bed near him, that royal pud was there for the taking, and he grasped it in his hand, holding the fleshy sceptre which adorned itself with a clear pearl of musky dew.

"Ah, ah, my loyal lord." the King said. "You trespass upon my domain without my permission."

"Punish me, then." Andrew sighed. "For I shall not depart now that I am here." And he milked the heavy pud and the pearly drop exuded itself into a teardrop that reached down from the weeping eyelet to touch and break itself upon the bedding like a bubble that touches the grass blades. Andrew pulled on this hungrily curving shaft, his lips ached to wrap around it, and he moved though his body yelled out with every move, and the King did not resist him, but instead straightened his legs, and soon Andrew's mouth captured and covered the King's prick, and it became a fire-heated poker of male strength in his mouth.

Andrew tried to work that familiar, beloved prong with his usual vigor, but his body refused and overcame his desire at last, after only a few minutes of earnest movements accompanied by grateful moans from his sovereign, he was forced to retreat from the field.

"Ah, forgive me, Sire, I cannot continue." Andrew said.

"I myself tire at this position." the King agreed. "I am some years your elder, you must remember, and my bones this time of year tell me of my oncoming gray hairs."

"You have no gray hairs." Andrew protested.

"They are there." the King said as he hitched himself up to sit beside Andrew. "Unseen, but only waiting their chance to reveal themselves."

Andrew raised himself up to rest his back upon the bed's backboard. "I know something of what you mean." he said. "My body's pains must be what old age shall one day feel like, a general ache that goes on and on."

"And I expect that this is the part that aches you the most." the King said, grasping Andrew's prick and pumping it firmly.

"Ah, ah, yes, my Lord, that part grieves me greatly!" Andrew moaned, and his hand found new strength and reached for the King's own.

They kissed as their hands pleasured each other in the room which seemed to grow colder by the moment, and in fact was, for a cold wind had arisen from off the seas and was blowing about the small seaside town, the cold air trapped by the hills and turned back upon itself, manufacturing a strong fog outside and filling the inside with a damp coldness. Yet in this coldness, the two bodies in the bed had found a way to warm themselves just the same.

Andrew felt the King's cock grow hotter in his hand, and his own dick seemed to throb with its urgency. He grunted his pleasure into the King's lips and the King took this as license to pound his cock the harder, and did, and Andrew's pud swelled hotter and harder and the inside of this swelling was concentrated pleasure waiting to break free.

The King was panting heavily, some of the breaths catching in his throat, only to burst out louder a split-second later, uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh-huh-uh!

"Ah, my time is upon me." Andrew groaned as the pleasure in his cock seemed to grow together into a palpable object inside his cockshaft. "I cannot tarry the longer."

"Tarry not, my beloved friend, but bestow your seed upon me and I shall repay you in kind." the King gasped out.

Andrew gave himself entirely to his pleasure, his lips resting upon the King's cheek, and he moaned his joy against that taut, thin layer of skin, and then his climax rose within him and he groaned loudly and his cock sprayed out at the King.

And the King gasped at the hot spew hitting him and then his own prick jetted out and splattered Andrew in its turn, just as the King had promised. Andrew felt the power of his ejaculation as it thrust itself out of his cock to splash against the King and at the same time he felt the widely scattered splats of the King's jism as it rained down upon him.

Some time later, their passions spent, their come congealing and cooling upon them, in the cold wetness of the room into which the mist had intruded as a ghostly but present visitor, Andrew kissed his sovereign lover once again, and realized that his body would not recover properly from the exhaustion of passion. "I must rest more now, Sire." he apologized. "My body is spent entire."

"And I have been glad to make it so, for you need rest to recover from your imprisonment." the King agreed. "I fear that for myself, I must go out and attend to the business and the promises I have made these last few days."

"Yes, promises." Andrew said sleepily. "I have a few of those myself. Like a cathedral shaped like a cockleshell."

"A cockleshell?" the King was surprised. "Do you jest?"

Andrew smiled. "I fear not, but I did promise it to the Merlemagnists, and so I shall build it for them."

"At Heslov?"

"Yes, Sire."

"Well." the King was at a loss. "If you must, you must, though that shall be something to see."

"Brother Eserel has promised to help me make it beautiful." Andrew said, smiling. "I shall hold him to that promise myself. And who knows, one day it may be as beautiful as he has promised." * THE END OF "KNIGHT OF CARLOVAIN" * [Author's Postscript: Keep an eye on that cockleshell-shaped cathedral, you'll be seeing it again in future episodes of this series. I plan to skip about a hundred years for the next series, so let me tell you briefly about the rest of Andrew's life. He never again had such an adventure, though there was much as the second Moresta Duke of Heslov (for Andrew was of the Neresterii Clan Moresta, you may remember) that he had to do. He kept his promise to the Merlemagnists and built the Cathedral of Christ's Crown at Heslov, an built it just as round as the plans called for. Flying buttresses for the outer walls softened the roundness, though, and when it was done, it looked less like a cockleshell and more like a spider, which was the word the vulgar gave it during its construction. But when faced with brown stone that shone warmly in the sun, its simple design was appreciated. It never did supplant the "pencil" cathedral in central Heslov, but there were many who preferred to take their devotions within the "Cockleshell's" more kindly interior. Two years after this, in 1477, Charles the Bold, Grand Duke of Burgundy, was killed in battle. Though his daughter married the King of Austria, it was France who swallowed up most of the duchy and ended its long period of independence. France obtained the provinces of Alsace and Lorraine which the Germans felt entitled to and they've been disputing ownership of those lands ever since. We all know what happened some years later, in 1492. The impact was slow in Europe, for many believed as Columbus that he had simply found a new way to the Indies. But in time, everyone realized that there was a new continent out there in the Atlantic Ocean, land free for the taking after you pushed aside a few inconsequential aboriginal inhabitants. And as always, there were many who needed land. As for Andrew, he lived a long life, had three sons, who each had several children of their own. Carlovain was slower than most lands to seek its fortune in the New World. But there did come the day when the expedition was formed for the New World from Carlovain, and when it did, it carried one of the great-grandchildren of Andrew in its complement who...ah, but that's another story!] * [A FURTHER P.S. TO NIFTY ARCHIVES READERS. I don't plan to post future episodes of this series at Nifty (because I really do plan a large number of sequels about Carlovain, far more than I care to burden Nifty with), but you can find/keep up with the series by visiting "Tommyhawk's Fantasy World." There's a link to it in the Links section of Nifty Archives.] KNIGHT OF CARLOVAIN, CONCLUSION

By "Tommyhawk1@AOL.COM

When Valbotg left on his mission of mercy on Andrew's behalf, Andrew felt wonderfully confident. Such a simple yet effective thing, to send Valbotg out to inquire about his brother at the inn! When told that Ananias had not yet arrived, he would leave a message with the innkeeper and probably even inquire among the patrons there, spreading his news along the way. Inns were hotbeds of gossip and the trading of news and information, and Valbotg would go there when it would be crowded with the evening's revelers; soon the word that he was in the Archbishop's prison would be circulating and would necessarily reach the ears of either Renaud when he went to the inn, or Charles when he went to give news to Andrew...and even the King.

Yes, it would get word to his friends what had befallen him. All he had to do now was wait. He slept despite the foulness of his quarters with peace in his heart.

Valbotg returned the next morning with his food and stood while Andrew ate heartily. Done, Andrew handed him the empty plate--he'd felt hungry and eaten every morsel--and looked up, saw the question in Valbotg's eyes, and smiled, stood and took Valbotg to his arms once more.

"I am glad to have a friend like you, if I must be here." he said to Valbotg's ears, caressing that cold mesh-metal-clad body.

"Glad am I to be your friend." Valbotg said.

"Had my brother arrived at the inn?" Andrew said, trying to keep it casual. If word to his brother was all he had sought, he would be eager for the answer, but not shakingly nervous.

"No, not yet." Valbotg informed him. "I spoke to everyone I could, including a monk who said that he would come to minister to you if he could until your brother arrived."

Andrew almost collapsed in relief. Renaud; it had to be Renaud. "Was it Brother Eserel?"

"Ya, that was he." Valbotg said. "A very kindly man who was most upset to hear you were here."

"He would be, he...is a worthy man of the cloth." Andrew said.

Valbotg's hands reached for Andrew's buttocks and pressed him tightly against Valbotg's own turgid crotch, a lump of stiffened flesh, and Andrew reached for those hairy lips and kissed Valbotg ardently, feeling his cock fill and press in its turn against Valbotg's.

"I trust my guard is seeing to your comfort as he was ordered." the Archbishop's wry voice interposed.

Valbotg released him hastily and turned, bowed to his liege lord. "Most Reverend Lord, I..."

"Cease your attempts to explain yourself, for your actions are most clear of themselves." the Archbishop said. "You need not stay here, my own guards will suffice for the remainder of my visit here."

Valbotg left the room and the Archbishop turned his attentions to Andrew. "I see that your captivity is not as large a burden on you as it is on some. I came to bring you news you may not have heard in your headlong ride across Carlovain to come here." he said. "It arrived by boat yesterday from Heslov."

"What is that?" Andrew frowned. Why would the Archbishop want to provide him with any news of any kind?

"Your father passed away two days ago." The Archbishop essayed a small smile. "A shame that you will not be able to attend your father's funeral, is it not? They will seal his body into a casket to wait for you. I wonder how long it will be before your mother goes on without you?"

Andrew heard all of his words, but they receded into the distance. His father, gone. He'd known his father was dying...but still. He sat down on his bunk and gave himself to his grief.

"Yes, I thought that would dim your ardor for my guards." the Archbishop said. "They speak of how quickly you give yourself to every man who looks your way, though I confess I had thought that was idle gossip until I saw it with my own eyes. Surely the King could obtain a more steadfast lover for his dalliances, I would think."

"Valbotg has been kind to me." Andrew flared. He wanted to hurt this arrogant man, with words since he had no sword. The need overcame even his grief at this moment...or was its substitute. "One may find a good man in a mercenary's troop....just as one may find a scoundrel in the garb of an Archbishop!"

That hit the Archbishop, all right, his face deepened as he scowled. "Filthy Neresterii scum!" he snarled at Andrew. "Sodomites and catamites, every one of you! We French did you a favor, coming to this land!"

"Do you mock your ancestors so easily?" Andrew returned. "I know your lineage as well as you. The first Montaigne Duke of Heslov took a Neresterii bride, as did his son. So did most of the French lords created by Phillippe I. I have spoken with Frenchmen, they do not consider you to be French any more than they consider me to be English, though I have more English blood in me than you have French!"

It felt good, hurting the Archbishop with his words, but now the price came, for Andrew was unarmed and his feet shackled on a short chain, the Archbishop stepped up and backhanded him across the face, hard! The heavy ring of office he wore cut Andrew's cheek sharply though the blow itself was scarcely harder than a slap, he turned and bent with the blow, and felt wetness on his cheek, but no more.

"I will not keep you the more." the Archbishop said, the words tight as a rope. "Know that you live only because I may have need of you. The moment that need is gone...so are you!"

And the Archbishop left.

Andrew sat back down on his bed. His father...dead. And him not even there to hold his mother and comfort his wife who had been so favored of his father, and his son, bewildered at the mourning going on around him.... Curse the Archbishop! He would stab that fiend right through the center of the cross he dared wear embroidered upon his chest!

Valbotg re-entered the cell and, seeing Andrew in sorrow, simply sat beside him and held him while Andrew cried, then left him alone. And so in slow mourning, Andrew passed the day.

There followed some days in the cell like this, Andrew wondering first what had gone wrong with his plan. Surely either Renaud or Charles would have learned of his imprisonment now. Surely they would come rescue him at any moment! Surely....

He questioned Valbotg to the point where the pretense of the brother wore impossibly thin. Valbotg was kind about it but Andrew could tell that he had realized Andrew's lie and use of him, and while he would not tell the Archbishop, neither would he help Andrew the more. When Andrew spurned Valbotg's advances as a result, the guard was changed to another, and he didn't even see Valbotg any more.

Nearly a week had gone by since his imprisonment, and Andrew had nearly given up all hope, believing now that his message had gone to naught, when the Archbishop again visited his cell. This time, fury was etched upon the cruel man's features.

"You!" He shook in fury. Then he backhanded Andrew, hard! This time it was no mere petulance on the Archbishop's part, he was angry. Andrew crouched back, hampered beyond any effective resistance by the shackles on his feet, he balled his fists and determined not to bear another like that.

The Archbishop shivered in his rage, then he said, "The King went out hunting with the Count and his men this morning, traveling north of the city." Andrew looked his query at this minor information. "He has not returned. The Count's men were diverted by the hunt, and when they looked about themselves once again, the King and his Guards were gone."

Andrew felt a sigh of relief. The warning had gotten through, the King was safe! He rose up and moved toward the Archbishop. "So your plans for Carlovain come to nothing." he said. "With the King warned and out of your reach, you can only cause another civil war if you act now. If you will end this and beg the King's pardon, I am certain he will not be overly harsh in his punishment."

He had been careless in moving forward, another hand was coming at him and he blocked it only partially. Too long in shackles in the cell, unable to move effectively, it had left him feeling as weak and feeble as if he had been ill. He reeled from the impact, stumbled back onto the cot.

"You were the one who brought him the message from Merlemagnists!" the Archbishop accused him. "You warned the King!"

"How could I have?" Andrew said disingenuously. "I have been here all the time. I have not been allowed near the King."

"You carried the message, then gave it to that blond-haired, beastly son of the Marquis of Lesleran to give the King." the Archbishop fumed. "You let yourself be captured in order to let him escape with the papers."

How did the Archbishop know all this? Perhaps the Royal Chamberlain had overheard and warned him. No real matter, he knew. "Very well." Andrew said. "I did indeed carry the papers across Carlovain, but they were your own words. You condemned yourself."

"But with the King in flight, probably north into the Neresterii lands, I have no further need of you." the Archbishop said. "Enjoy your night." he turned. "On the morning, you shall die."

Andrew was left alone, and as if in answer to his wondering as to the hour, the light dimmed. Dusk had come, and with it, the end of day.

Surely the King, now warned, would send him aid. Perhaps Renaud would insist on leading an expedition to help him. Maybe Charles would even join in.

Surely.

Perhaps.

Maybe.

The long, long night turned slowly into dawn. Dawn was the hour for executions in Carlovain, the time when life was said to be weakest, and death rose and walked about as the forces of nature were briefly caught between light and darkness, with darkness holding more powerful sway. It harked back to pagan rituals of the dawn, but the custom remained, as the sun rose, they came for Andrew.

Into the cold morning, his hands bound behind his back with rope, the shackles replaced with others that hobbled his walk but let him shuffle forward in halting steps, Andrew was taken out of the cell. Through the front door he had seen only barely before, he saw that the courtyard was lined with the Archbishop's Guards. Beyond this line were the townspeople of Fediresta, come to see a lord die. Andrew looked about...surely help would come!...but there was none to be seen. He rose up the steps with difficulty, a guard helping him raise his feet a sufficient height to go up the steps. And there on top was a block, and a burly man with an axe, hooded with black. And Count Ernaud was there, in obvious alliance with the Archbishop.

His hour had come, Andrew realized. He must die now.

He felt despair rise up...and with it, resignation. Well, if nothing was left to choose but the manner of death, he would take it well. He raised his head up high, proud, walked with steps as dignified as he could to the block.

There is a ritual to an execution, the blessing said for the man to die, the pronouncement by the judge--here the Archbishop--and then the condemned is allowed a chance to say a few words. Then they lay his head down on the block and it is chopped off.

Too quickly for Andrew, the first parts were over. "Say your piece." grumbled the Archbishop as he gave way to Andrew.

Andrew looked out over the crowd. What was there to say? No friend could hear him. Brave words sounded hollow to his inner ear.

He took in a deep breath. "Long live the King!" he called out at the top of his voice. "Long live the King!"

It was a poor set of last words, but it was all his heart held. He lowered his head and turned to the block. Rough hands forced him into place. Pressing his head down upon the block, turned to one side so that his neck would be more exposed. As ritual demanded, he was looking upon the Archbishop.

To his surprise, the Archbishop knelt down with him. "I swore I would see you die." he snarled into Andrew's face. "The last thing you see is going to be my face, looking right at you. The face of a Montaigne, and justice for my family, come at last."

He looked up, nodded to the executioner, and then back at Andrew.

His last look, the Archbishop's triumphantly angry face. Yet Andrew could not bring himself to close his eyes! It would be his very last look, his last vision of the world. Let not it end in darkness!

Cruelly livid eyes, a smirk on the face, anger and hatred towards Andrew. And then...the executioner's axe fell, but on the Archbishop!

The Archbishop saw the axe leveled towards his own neck, slicing horizontally towards him rather than straight down at Andrew, and he made the first start of a move away, and the axe found his neck. Razor sharp, it cut cleanly through and the headless body of the Archbishop fell out of Andrew's narrow view.

He felt a tug at the ropes binding his arms, a knife was cutting him free! The axe flew again in the general astonished silence at what had occurred, this time severing the shackles of his feet.

Andrew needed no more. Rescue had come! He clambered to his feet, the heavy iron circles at his ankles impeding him, but he was ready to run all day with them on his feet if he had to.

He looked up into an incipient chaos. The Guards were only now reacting to the death of their lord. But the crowd around them...the weather of early morning was chill in this seaside town. Most of the viewers wore cloaks, and now those cloaks were flung aside and a field of swords rose up around them.

There were scattered fights here and there as some Guards, more foolish or more frightened or more ready to shed blood in battle, fought, but to all intents and purposes, the battle was over before it began.

Andrew was bewildered, standing on the block which was to have been his doom, and instead it was the crowd of the Archbishop's soldiers about him who were suddenly the captives.

"We meet again." Count Ernaud said to Andrew.

Andrew looked upon the man, whom he remembered only as a cruel, arrogant young man. "I owe you my life." he said. "I am grateful."

"I did it not for you." the Count growled. "Not even for my brother who came to me with news of your capture and pleaded with me for your release."

"Then why?" Andrew said. "You have no reason to help me."

"I didn't do it to help you, I did it to help myself!" the Count said. "I have the domain of Fediresta, was I to throw that away to get vengeance upon the very King who put me here? Would you have done so, you who are now Duke of Heslov?"

"Of course not." Andrew said. "But I am grateful just the same."

"And I'm grateful to you, for bringing those papers. All we had to go on was rumor and suspicion, until those papers were laid into the King's hands. I couldn't accuse my father and older brother of treason without that, for all their schemes against me. But now lay your gratitude before the one who has earned it; I would have let your head go flying!"

Andrew turned to follow the Count's pointing hand and there... "Your Majesty!" he said and held the cloaked figure tightly.

"Steady, my beloved friend, steady!" the King chided him.

Andrew held him tightly, just the same. "I come to save you, and instead you save me, Sire." he breathed.

"We saved each other, for now with the papers you brought, we have the tools to take the last of the traitors from among us." the King said. "I can finish the job started five years ago with you at Winseran Point."

Guards cleared the way for the King and Andrew to the coach waiting for them. Once they were seated within its interior, Andrew said. "Sire, I thought I was going to die." He said this, preparatory to once again thank the King for his salvation.

"Yes." the King said, "And I have only one thing to say on that, my dearest friend.."

"What is it, Sire?"

"Couldn't you have come up with a better set of last words than that?"

Andrew laughed and embraced his lord and his lover.

Back in the King's chamber, this time as an honored guest, Andrew was given the chance to cleanse his body which had been sorely fouled over the last week in captivity. Once done with his bath and with a hot meal inside of him, he was suddenly, sorely tired. The King was busy with his ministers as they planned how to deal with the remnants of the rebellion, now without its leader, so Andrew said simply to the servant set to care for him. "Take me to a bed and let me sleep through the day if I can. I don't wish to be wakened unless the King calls for me."

He was taken to the royal chamber, red satin trimmed with ermine, and ensconced within a comfort his body had come to expect and had done without for the past weeks, he fell soundly asleep.

When he awoke, it was well into the afternoon, but it wasn't the sun which had roused him. The King had joined him in the bed, and the bare flesh of his sovereign was pressing against him.

Andrew sighed happily. "We are together once more." he breathed.

"Always." the King promised him. "For so long as I have breath within me."

"I have missed you." Andrew said as his hands traveled over the gentle, regal flesh. The King's body felt cool--that was the oncoming winter--the skin was taut upon his body, the muscles making discrete bumps upon their allotted portions, rather than flowing smoothly across his body. It felt less like stroking a person and more like stroking a sculpture made of marble, save that this skin was not cold, uncaring marble, but more like sun-warmed sand you ran your hand across in languid comfort as the sun bronzed your body. Like a last taste of summer.

Andrew reached his lips for his King's and was surprised to feel his body still was reluctant to move about. It had been held still too long, his body needed more rest, and then time to slowly stretch back out the muscles truncated by the enforced rest of the shackles.

"Sire, I fear that I shall not be a proper lover for you this day." Andrew said sorrowfully. "My body has deteriorated in it captivity, and is averse to move for me once again. I fear I was used more grievously than I had thought, bound as I was."

The King only smiled kindly. "Then we shall not put any undue strain upon you until you have recovered." he said. "Lie upon the bed and permit me to labor for your pleasure."

Andrew obeyed and the King's lips were avid upon his lips, then across his cheek, and down his breast. Andrew felt those lips clutch at one of his nipples and nurse most ardently at it, the tongue adding its counterpoint to the caress, so much that he wished his body would give forth milk and so nourish the hungry mouth fastened upon him. And the King's head moved on, nestling between his breasts, kissing the hollow concave there, Andrew's heart pounding in his chest in an attempt to jump out and kiss back those gentle guests of his body.

And the King moved on, and now Andrew's ribs were being licked by the King's tongue, long strokes along the bones there, invisible and unknown to Andrew until this moment, when the King's kisses brought them to life by his touching of them.

And the King moved on and now Andrew's navel was being probed by that mischievous tongue, which dug in so deeply that Andrew felt his navel indent the more from the pressure, the tongue like a warm jewel placed there to be snuggled into the tight oval of flesh and cling there ever afterwards.

And the King moved on, and now that tongue was exploring the dense brush of his pubic hair, sliding among the slender reeds of the tangled hairs there, trodding over them when it had to, but mostly keeping its tip onto his flesh beneath it, and again Andrew's body, a neglected part brought to life, keened its pleasure.

And the King moved on and now his mouth climbed the throne of Andrew's manhood with all dignity, and sat upon its crest, and like the royal robes of a high court that rippled down the steps around the throne, the King's lips rippled down the sides of Andrew's shaft, and covered him in their velvety warmth.

Andrew could lay still no longer, though his body still resented his demands upon it, he had the King's body angled out on the bed near him, that royal pud was there for the taking, and he grasped it in his hand, holding the fleshy sceptre which adorned itself with a clear pearl of musky dew.

"Ah, ah, my loyal lord." the King said. "You trespass upon my domain without my permission."

"Punish me, then." Andrew sighed. "For I shall not depart now that I am here." And he milked the heavy pud and the pearly drop exuded itself into a teardrop that reached down from the weeping eyelet to touch and break itself upon the bedding like a bubble that touches the grass blades. Andrew pulled on this hungrily curving shaft, his lips ached to wrap around it, and he moved though his body yelled out with every move, and the King did not resist him, but instead straightened his legs, and soon Andrew's mouth captured and covered the King's prick, and it became a fire-heated poker of male strength in his mouth.

Andrew tried to work that familiar, beloved prong with his usual vigor, but his body refused and overcame his desire at last, after only a few minutes of earnest movements accompanied by grateful moans from his sovereign, he was forced to retreat from the field.

"Ah, forgive me, Sire, I cannot continue." Andrew said.

"I myself tire at this position." the King agreed. "I am some years your elder, you must remember, and my bones this time of year tell me of my oncoming gray hairs."

"You have no gray hairs." Andrew protested.

"They are there." the King said as he hitched himself up to sit beside Andrew. "Unseen, but only waiting their chance to reveal themselves."

Andrew raised himself up to rest his back upon the bed's backboard. "I know something of what you mean." he said. "My body's pains must be what old age shall one day feel like, a general ache that goes on and on."

"And I expect that this is the part that aches you the most." the King said, grasping Andrew's prick and pumping it firmly.

"Ah, ah, yes, my Lord, that part grieves me greatly!" Andrew moaned, and his hand found new strength and reached for the King's own.

They kissed as their hands pleasured each other in the room which seemed to grow colder by the moment, and in fact was, for a cold wind had arisen from off the seas and was blowing about the small seaside town, the cold air trapped by the hills and turned back upon itself, manufacturing a strong fog outside and filling the inside with a damp coldness. Yet in this coldness, the two bodies in the bed had found a way to warm themselves just the same.

Andrew felt the King's cock grow hotter in his hand, and his own dick seemed to throb with its urgency. He grunted his pleasure into the King's lips and the King took this as license to pound his cock the harder, and did, and Andrew's pud swelled hotter and harder and the inside of this swelling was concentrated pleasure waiting to break free.

The King was panting heavily, some of the breaths catching in his throat, only to burst out louder a split-second later, uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh-huh-uh!

"Ah, my time is upon me." Andrew groaned as the pleasure in his cock seemed to grow together into a palpable object inside his cockshaft. "I cannot tarry the longer."

"Tarry not, my beloved friend, but bestow your seed upon me and I shall repay you in kind." the King gasped out.

Andrew gave himself entirely to his pleasure, his lips resting upon the King's cheek, and he moaned his joy against that taut, thin layer of skin, and then his climax rose within him and he groaned loudly and his cock sprayed out at the King.

And the King gasped at the hot spew hitting him and then his own prick jetted out and splattered Andrew in its turn, just as the King had promised. Andrew felt the power of his ejaculation as it thrust itself out of his cock to splash against the King and at the same time he felt the widely scattered splats of the King's jism as it rained down upon him.

Some time later, their passions spent, their come congealing and cooling upon them, in the cold wetness of the room into which the mist had intruded as a ghostly but present visitor, Andrew kissed his sovereign lover once again, and realized that his body would not recover properly from the exhaustion of passion. "I must rest more now, Sire." he apologized. "My body is spent entire."

"And I have been glad to make it so, for you need rest to recover from your imprisonment." the King agreed. "I fear that for myself, I must go out and attend to the business and the promises I have made these last few days."

"Yes, promises." Andrew said sleepily. "I have a few of those myself. Like a cathedral shaped like a cockleshell."

"A cockleshell?" the King was surprised. "Do you jest?"

Andrew smiled. "I fear not, but I did promise it to the Merlemagnists, and so I shall build it for them."

"At Heslov?"

"Yes, Sire."

"Well." the King was at a loss. "If you must, you must, though that shall be something to see."

"Brother Eserel has promised to help me make it beautiful." Andrew said, smiling. "I shall hold him to that promise myself. And who knows, one day it may be as beautiful as he has promised."

THE END OF "KNIGHT OF CARLOVAIN"

[Author's Postscript: Keep an eye on that cockleshell-shaped cathedral, you'll be seeing it again in future episodes of this series. I plan to skip about a hundred years for the next series, so let me tell you briefly about the rest of Andrew's life.

He never again had such an adventure, though there was much as the second Moresta Duke of Heslov (for Andrew was of the Neresterii Clan Moresta, you may remember) that he had to do. He kept his promise to the Merlemagnists and built the Cathedral of Christ's Crown at Heslov, an built it just as round as the plans called for. Flying buttresses for the outer walls softened the roundness, though, and when it was done, it looked less like a cockleshell and more like a spider, which was the word the vulgar gave it during its construction. But when faced with brown stone that shone warmly in the sun, its simple design was appreciated. It never did supplant the "pencil" cathedral in central Heslov, but there were many who preferred to take their devotions within the "Cockleshell's" more kindly interior.

Two years after this, in 1477, Charles the Bold, Grand Duke of Burgundy, was killed in battle. Though his daughter married the King of Austria, it was France who swallowed up most of the duchy and ended its long period of independence. France obtained the provinces of Alsace and Lorraine which the Germans felt entitled to and they've been disputing ownership of those lands ever since.

We all know what happened some years later, in 1492. The impact was slow in Europe, for many believed as Columbus that he had simply found a new way to the Indies. But in time, everyone realized that there was a new continent out there in the Atlantic Ocean, land free for the taking after you pushed aside a few inconsequential aboriginal inhabitants. And as always, there were many who needed land.

As for Andrew, he lived a long life, had three sons, who each had several children of their own. Carlovain was slower than most lands to seek its fortune in the New World. But there did come the day when the expedition was formed for the New World from Carlovain, and when it did, it carried one of the great-grandchildren of Andrew in its complement who...ah, but that's another story!]

[A FURTHER P.S. TO NIFTY ARCHIVES READERS. I don't plan to post future episodes of this series at Nifty (because I really do plan a large number of sequels about Carlovain, far more than I care to burden Nifty with), but you can find/keep up with the series by visiting "Tommyhawk's Fantasy World." There's a link to it in the Links section of Nifty Archives.]

Next: Chapter 30: Prince and Commoner


Rate this story

Liked this story?

Nifty is entirely volunteer-run and relies on people like you to keep the site running. Please support the Nifty Archive and keep this content available to all!

Donate to The Nifty Archive
Nifty

© 1992, 2024 Nifty Archive. All rights reserved

The Archive

About NiftyLinks❤️Donate