Beyond the Barrier of Snow by Josan The Captive To hoots, howls and jeers, the three prisoners were dragged into the Great Hall of the victorious King Rufus. Finally, after all these years of warring, and losing, against his neighbour to the south, Rufus had achieved what he so wanted: the routing of his enemy's forces, pushing them back further south beyond the rich mineral resources of the border hills. That the victory was due to the betrayal of the man sitting next to him only made it sweeter. General Morley had his own list of grievances against his liege lord, David of Ackland, and the flattery of Rufus's agent, the promises that he would be given his proper position, his long-denied recognition had made the decision of betraying his own quite easy. His grin was evilly delighted at the sight of the three men, one of whom, in particular, he was hoping to execute with his own hands. The three men were dragged by the chains attached to their necks up to the dais where Rufus sat with a few honoured military allies. All these men had had dealings with one or other of the three, King David's trusted generals. Loyal, honourable men who knew the ways of war, incorruptible by no matter what offer. Now brought low before their enemies. Rufus stood and signalled for silence. A short, squat man, with shoulders that proved he could indeed handle the two-edged sword that was always by his side, he waited, hand on hip, other hand held up. His ferocity in the face of being denied what he wanted was so well known that, within minutes, the Hall had quietened to the point that even the dogs, rummaging for scraps among the reeds that covered the floor, also fell silent. Rufus looked over his prisoners with a feeling of pleasure that was almost sexual. The three had been stripped on capture, beaten, chained. Three who had stood between him and his desires. Three who had thwarted him. Three who would now pay for that temerity. He grinned an open smile, revealing blackened teeth, gaps. He enjoyed this holding of his men, the ones who enjoyed his special favours, in his hand. Some of them knew what was coming, waited, licking their mouths in anticipation of the evening's sport. Rufus went down to the floor, pointed to three eating areas that had been set up in the hall, one to the left of the main table, the other to the right, the third in front. At his signal, the scraps, platters, goblets were swept off onto the floor. At another, each of the three prisoners was dragged over, thrown onto the table, face down, held spread-eagle by four men. Rufus strode to the table in front of his dais. With great delight, he ran his hands brutally over the man's body, examining the welts, wounds, bruising that had already been administered. The man made no sound, only further increasing Rufus's hatred of him. With a growl, Rufus found the man's asshole and rammed a finger in. "By the gods! A virgin!" Rufus roared, a sign for his men to join in. "Maybe this is how the bold Wat of Fen was so victorious for so long! Did you offer celibacy to your gods in exchange for victory, Sir General?" He leaned over, grabbed the man by the hair, pulled brutally back far enough that the man was choking. "Where are your gods now, Sir Walter, now that you would need them? They, like your king, seem to have abandoned you." He let the man's head drop. To the whistles and cheers of his men, he raised his tunic, displaying his huge cock. The two men holding the prisoner's legs pulled him down for their King's ease. Another came to drop in front of his king. "Ah, Gyles," Rufus greeted his favourite of the moment, "come prepare the royal tool for a plowing. I have planting to do." Gyles quickly aroused his lord, knowing the cost of displeasure. When Rufus was pleased with his work, he shoved the boy away from him. Gyles sprang to his feet, spread the prisoner's ass cheeks apart for the king's easier access and helped direct the royal tool to its goal. The prisoner screamed as Rufus forced his way in to the root. And though he tried not to give Rufus this additional pleasure, the king was more than pleased with the sounds of pain coming from the man. He took his time coming, enjoying every moment of this rape. Had it not been for this particular general, he would not have lost so many men, so much face over the years. By the time the sport was done, this man would know what it was like to be denied what he sought: he would make him beg for death. The king's orgasm was signal for the rape of the other two to begin. Rufus covered himself, took a goblet of wine from Gyles and made his way back to his chair. Morley's eyes gleamed with pleasure at the sight before him. He made a bow from his seat to his new liege lord. "Good plowing, I hope, my lord?" Rufus laughed. "When will you go afield, my general? I can order them to let you have your choice?" "No, many thanks for the consideration, my lord, but I prefer to watch, to listen. This way I can enjoy all three of them at the same time." Maybe, thought Rufus, this man would after all prove to be a good addition to his court. "No!" he shouted at one of the groups, "No maiming! That is my privilege!" The sport continued for some time. There was no actual maiming, but that restriction didn't stop the imaginative play on the bodies of the three. Rufus revelled in the sight of his nemesis brought low, but there were limits to the time he allowed his men to play with their new toys. At another signal, one which took longer to make its way felt through the Hall, he brought the activities to an end. There was some grumbling from some corners but a glare from their liege lord brought it down to a near silent muttering. Rufus had the three men brought to kneel in front of him. Morley smiled to himself: the part he had been waiting for. The prisoners' bodies were raw, faces were battered, bruised beyond recognition. One had screamed himself mute. Only the chains held in the hands of their handlers kept them upright. Rufus shared a smile with Morley: he knew full well that the man wanted to be the one to execute at least one, if not all three. He was about to offer the prize to his new general when a voice, one that had not been heard throughout the evening, spoke up. "My lord, I remind you of your promise to me." Rufus stilled, turned to face the speaker. Morley was displeased but held his tongue. He may have hated Sir Walter but he feared this man. Any sane man feared this man. At the far end of the Hall, lounging in one of the small alcoves, was a man whose dress showed him to be one of the Northerners. Unlike the lighter colours, materials favoured by those from the south, he favoured dark hues, textures. He swung his booted feet to the floor, stood. Morley saw a man taller than most around him, whiter- skinned. Slimmer, but not weaker: to consider him weaker was a fatal mistake made by only those who had never heard of him. Never seen him in action. In the way of his people, his black hair was braided, hanging in one long thick plait behind him. His hairless face with its sensual lips, fine nose revealed his rank, a lord to be taken into account. The brilliant green eyes only added to the difference of the man as he strolled to the front of the Hall. "My promise, Lord Krycek? Which promise was that?" Lord Krycek smiled, showing surprise that the liege lord had forgotten. "Why, my lord, that I might chose myself a new pet. Surely you remember, when your dogs mauled my bitch, you said that before I left I could choose a pet from among any of your creatures." Rufus laughed, "That I did, Lord Krycek. Have you decided which of my creatures you would like as a replacement?" Lord Krycek stood, one hand on his hip, the other on the sword named Deathbringer. Morley would have sold his mother to be able to examine that sword. It was narrower than any of the southern swords, thus lighter, but at the same time sharper. Deathbringer, it was rumoured, could cut through mail. "One of these might do." Rufus was taken aback. "One of these? Whatever for?" Lord Krycek's wide grin grew feral, enjoying the fact that Rufus's hand made its way to the dagger he wore on his belt. "Well, it is a long journey back to my lands. The sea voyage alone is quite boring. It might be interesting to do a little carving, to keep me amused." His hand rested a bit more tightly on Deathbringer. "You did promise, my lord." Lord Krycek's bodyguards, who had spent the evening sitting in his corner, slowly began standing up. Of all present in the Hall, they alone were sober. Rufus knew that Lord Krycek was better as an ally than an enemy. And he might be needed again. So he smiled, gave a little bow, "I am a man of my word. I said you might have the pick of any of my creatures. And so you may." Besides, thought Rufus, Lord Krycek's "pets", and this would not be his first human one, didn't survive very long past his disinterest. He rather liked the fact that one of his enemies might look back at his time here in his castle with longing. Lord Krycek slowly strolled around the three men. One of them had obviously gone mad: he stared sightlessly, mouth open, bloodied drool stringing from his mouth. Another was also obviously dying. The third was barely hanging on to consciousness, but still fought to keep his head up. His face was swollen, eyes almost shut. Still the eyes seemed to look up to Lord Krycek as he stood in front of him. Lord Krycek looked to the King who had bought his services for a time. He would be going back to his people with gold enough to provide for them through hard times. Maybe he could bring them a bit more. "I think this one will do." He pointed to the third man. "No!" Morley's cry brought the attention of both Rufus and Lord Krycek. "That one has to die. I want him dead." And realized his error as soon as the words left his mouth. "You want him dead?" Rufus was stunned at the effrontery of the man. Just who did he think he was? "You!" Morley tried to recover. "My liege lord, he's selected Sir Walter. My lord, the man who has blocked your every attempt to reclaim what was rightfully yours. Surely the man deserves to die, at your order, for his audacity. For his putting your plans in jeopardy. He does not deserve any chance at a continuation of life. No matter what plans the Mer..." He caught himself: Lord Krycek was known to disapprove of his nom de guerre. There were not many who called him the Mercenary to his face and got away with it. Lord Krycek called what he did alliances, temporary, well paid, but alliances. "My lord," interrupted Lord Krycek, "perhaps I should withdraw while you and your colleague decide the matter." "Colleague!" snapped Rufus. "He is one of my men, not a colleague. Take him," he pointed to the man under discussion. "I'm certain that he may live to please you. As a pet." At his signal, Sir Walter's handler handed Lord Krycek the man's chain. Lord Krycek accepted it with a deep bow to the king. "It is good to know that one may trust the word of an ally, especially one as important as yourself, King Rufus." He tugged the chain so that the man was pulled up to his feet, wrapped it around his hand till he held it close by his prisoner's collar and dragged the stumbling man behind him back to the alcove. There he settled in his seat, his men around him, forced the barely conscious man to his knees and held him there while Rufus gave the signal that ended the other men's lives. Morley was not as pleased with the proceedings as he had expected to be. Though he had hated the two who were being butchered in front of him, he had always held the third personally responsible for the fact that he never received the honours he felt he should have from King David. He watched Lord Krycek's group begin to make their way out of the Hall now that all the entertainment was over. He signalled to one of his men. Lord Krycek was dragging his new "pet" along when he saw the man approaching with a drawn dagger in his hand. With no unnecessary move, Deathbringer suddenly appeared in his hand, swooped and a hand with a dagger clenched in it went spraying through the Hall. The Lord and his people left the screaming behind them and found their quarters for their last night under Rufus's roof. Guards were quickly set up, guards who knew better than to doze on watch. Deathbringer dealt with those foolish enough to be less than observant. The Lord was a harsh man but paid well. Inside the rooms, a second line of defense set itself up without having to be told: the Lord's men were well trained. The Lord himself settled into a deep chair set in front of the open hearth, unwound the chain from his hand and allowed his new pet sink to the floor. Sir Walter of Fen had a reputation that had made its way even to his northern lands. The man who barely looked alive was a brilliant tactician, strategist, a brave warrior who rode into battle at the side of his men, not behind them. A man who could read and write, both skills rare among the men of his class. A man that should be worth his weight in gold in ransom from King David. After his body servant had helped him out of his court dress, into something light for these southern climes, he had him look over the unconscious man lying at his feet. "Well, Morlan, will he live?" "Aye, that he might, my lord. Then again, he might not. Depends." "On?" The Lord was used to Morlan's ways: the man never committed himself. "How much strength he has left. He'll need tending." "Do what you can with him tonight. We still have to get out of here tomorrow and who knows what trouble there will be at the morning table. Morley wants him dead. Unfortunately for him, I want the man alive. David won't ransom a dead general." With that, the Lord left to verify that all baggage was ready for immediate departure on the morrow, all his men ready, and armed. They would be sleeping in shifts tonight, as they did every night he paid them. He personally checked the horses, the pack ponies. The Lord had not reached the age of twenty-seven by trusting his life and goods to any man. The closest he had with him on any "alliance" was Morlan, the only man who had accompanied him from his lands, beyond the Barrier of Snow. The others he had selected from warring bands, disbanded armies over the years. They were faithful to him because they knew the consequence if they were not: an encounter with Deathbringer. They obeyed him for the same reason. That, and for the fact that when they returned home, they did so with heavy purses. Many of them had accompanied him on more than one journey to the south, some had even brought along their sons for the training, for the reputation of being labelled one of Lord Krycek's men. It was late into the night before the Lord made his way to his bed. Morlan sat crouched by the fire, by the sleeping man who would add still more gold to his coffers. The Lord had nearly dropped off when Morlan said, "There are spies among the men." The Lord grunted, made himself more comfortable on the straw mattress, covered his eyes with his arm. "There are always spies among the men." "Some report to the Traitor Morley." The Lord yawned. "Of course they do." He slept soundly in the silence. Morning Sir Walter was roughly shaken awake. Morlan managed to pour a potion of herbs down his throat with difficulty: the man's throat was raw from the night's sport and he could barely swallow. The Lord, dressed in his travelling mail, watched as Morlan's potion worked its usual magic and revived the man enough for him to understand. Understand, that is, assuming that his brains hadn't been scrambled by what had been done to him. The Lord grabbed his chain by the collar and forced him to raise his head. His eyes were still almost swollen shut, but the Lord caught a glimmer of intelligence behind the slitted lids. "Listen to me, Sir Knight. Carefully. Your life depends on it. All you have to do is accept. Whatever it is I do to you. Don't try and fight me. Conserve whatever strength you have for the journey. Believe me, you will need it." He wound the chain again around his gloved hand and with one pull, hauled the man to his feet. Ignoring the snickers of his men, he dragged his new pet along with him across the courtyard to the Great Hall where tables were laden with bread, cheese, watered wine for the breaking of the night's fast. The Lord let his pet rest on the floor by his feet as he ate, listening yet again to the King's officers refight the glory of their win, their roles increasing in importance with each telling. He wasn't surprised that Morley was absent; he was when Rufus entered the Hall with just a few of his bodyguards. He was still royally drunk on his victory as well as the goblets of wine he was still quaffing. "Ah, my lord Krycek, on your way this morning, are you? And with your pet." He settled in his chair, waved the men back into their seats magnanimously. "Tell me, Lord Krycek, just what will you do with your pet to keep yourself amused on your long journey? It may be that your pet will not provide you with ample amusement." "I have no fears of that, my liege king." "Carving, I believe you said." Rufus had spent the night with Morley at his side, whispering worrying little thoughts. He took another mouthful of wine, nearly choked on swallowing it. Caught his breath. "What precisely does that mean, Lord Krycek?" The Lord had been expecting something like this, had prepared for it by having Morlan add some stimulants to the potion. His prize was going to be the worse for wear before they left the Hall, but as long as he was ransomable, the Lord was willing to do anything to him to placate the King. He pulled out his dagger. The king's bodyguards lifted their weapons. The Lord raised an eloquent eyebrow at the king who merely smiled. He yanked his pet up off the floor, pulled till his chest lay on the table in front of his master. Then he leaned over, used the point of the dagger to carve a symbol on one of the few unblemished spots on his captive's shoulder. Rufus found that he was both pleased by the demonstration and the scream that came out of the General's throat. "Is there significance to the symbol?" Morley had suddenly appeared at the king's side. "My brand," the Lord wiped the blood off his blade on the grease stained cloth that covered the table. He rose, slipping the dagger back in its sheath. With his usual grace, he bid Rufus, "Adieu, till the next time you need a Northern alliance." Hauled his pet to his feet in his usual way, and left. Payment had been settled, as usual, with the king's bookkeepers the day before. Within ten minutes, far faster than anyone else with the number of men he had could have accomplished, the Lord was on his way out of the castle walls, his men already scouting ahead in case of trouble on the road to the port town where a ship was waiting to take some of them back home. Sir Walter, chain securely held in the hand of one of the Lord's bodyguards, lay face down over some of the smaller bags carried by a pack pony. He was unconscious before they left the castle walls. It was a journey of five good days' marching to the northern-most port of King Rufus's land. Apart from a few skirmishes with roaming soldiers who should have known better, port was reached relatively trouble-free. Every night, the Lord's tent was erected and every night, Morley's spies could report that the Lord's pet howled. New symbols appeared on his body the next day. Only one or two of the newer soldiers showed interest in the man and the markings: the Lord's veterans knew better than to do so. It took no time to discern the identity of Morley's men, nor the king's. The ship in port belonged to the Lord. When not taking him to other lands for "alliances", it travelled the sea, carrying cargo of furs, strangely wrought jewelry to the south; spices, fine linens to the north. They had to wait for the right tides and winds. He paid and disbanded the men he had engaged in this port five months previously for this particular alliance. Only those who formed his personal entourage would travel with him to the next port of call. Walter The days they spent waiting for the wind and tide were days Walter of Fen spent healing. He had very little memory of the journey to this room, to the blanket and the pallet in his corner of the room. He realized that most of that was due to the potion the smaller man poured down his throat every morning. What little he did remember was associated with pain. That, at the day's end, when the potion had worn off, he was taken to the man who referred to him only as "Pet". There, he would be given food of some kind, mainly broth, made to kneel by the man's side throughout the meal he shared with some of his men, the chain from his collar at hand so that if Walter began to sit back, a sharp tug would bring him back to his knees. Always to the sound of much laughter. Then, when the table had been cleared, when the drinking had seriously begun, he would be hauled to his feet, thrown down on the table in front of his master. He had learnt to brace himself for the next bit of sport: the feel of a sharp point carving into his body. He'd scream. He no longer even tried not to. There was no point to it. He was not a man any longer: just a mass of flesh to be played with. The strange part began after that. The men would leave, the light put out and he would be ordered to scream. If not loud enough, or long enough, he would feel the point of a blade in him, as encouragement. Then, the little man would doctor his newest wounds, check the others, pour more of the potion down his throat. Soon after, he would remember nothing. He woke here, on his pallet, one fine sunny day, was fed and allowed to sleep without being drugged. That night, he was fed again, and fell back into sleep, all the while waiting for the Lord and his dagger to return to torment his body. He was left alone. Only the servant, Morlan, bothered with him. And then only to check that his body was healing, to doctor him if necessary, to bring him food several times a day. To check that the chain still linked to the collar around his neck was indeed whole and attached to the bedpost. It was long enough to allow him to lie down, to use the pot by the foot of the bed. Apart from that, it was as if he did not exist. He lay under his blanket, still the only covering he had for his body, slept, pretended to sleep. He had learnt long ago the skill to sleep anywhere under any circumstances, to wake, fully alert at the slightest sound, to lie still. Useful skills for any soldier. He forced himself not to think about the battle with Rufus, the betrayal by a man whose position was due only to his connections with the royal family, the trap he and his fellow generals had fallen into. They were dead; he, alive. He concentrated on conserving energy, building up his strength, carefully analyzing the possibility of escape. All done huddled in his corner in the room. The Lord and Morlan held scanty conversations, in a language unknown to him, in the evening when the Lord returned from whatever kept him busy in the town. From the smell of the sea that accompanied the man whenever he entered the room, Walter concluded they were in a port town. From the condition of his body, that they were a good week's journey from the castle where he had provided so much sport for Rufus and his men. From the tone of the Lord's voice whenever he spoke to Morlan these nights, that there was some trouble. Whether or not that trouble would affect him, he could do nothing about it but lie on his pallet and hope that he had provided enough entertainment for the moment. He did not delude himself that his role as amusement was over. Sea Voyage They couldn't wait any longer. The messenger the Lord had sent to David of Ackland had not returned, had not sent word of any kind. There were only so many days that he could use the excuse of wind and tide to delay departure. There were still too many spies in the area reporting to either Rufus or Morley. The Lord gave the order to loose sails, took with him on ship those men who had followed him from Home Port. He did not need Morlan to remind him that there were still eyes reporting even among these men. There would be until he arrived at the Barrier of Snow. Morlan had prepared his cabin, making certain that the gold was securely hidden before even allowing the Lord's new pet to be brought in. The man had kept the blanket wrapped around him, using it as covering on the move from inn room to cabin. Morlan was quite pleased with the luck and recovery of his patient. His wounds had healed without infection. His body had been in prime form before the battle: it was probably the only thing that had kept him alive, sane— well, as sane as Morlan could determine. The man was wily, Morlan had to give him that. He had rolled with whatever punch the Lord had given him, conserved his strength rather than fight him, try to escape. The Lord was right: a man well worth ransoming. But the fact that they were leaving port without an answer from David, that the Lord always hated the confinement of cabin, of ship on any voyage did not bode well for the well-being of the Lord's pet. Morlan loved his Lord, would follow him into the fires of hell if need be, but he had no illusions as to the temper of the man. Hemmed in, he would be cruel, lashing out in frustration at whatever was handy. Never Morlan: he never laid a cruel hand on him. But Morlan feared the pet would need whatever strength he had gathered before Home Port was reached. He was right. On the third day out, the winds dropped so that the ship moved through the water at a snail's pace. The Lord spent the day pacing the boards, heightening the tension dropped winds brought with them at this time of the year. No one relished the idea of rowing all the way to port. Certainly not under the tongue and lash of the Lord. That night the Lord noticed the man in the darkest corner of the cabin. He sat huddled under his blanket, head resting on clasped knees, quiet enough to be sleeping. Morlan provided the Lord with another cup of unwatered wine and wondered if all his doctoring was going to be for nothing. Still, he did not protest when the Lord signalled him to leave the cabin. "Look at me, pet." The Lord's soft voice was clear in the small space. There was no response from the man in the corner. "Pet. Look at me. If I have to tell you one more time, you won't have eyes to carry out my order when next I give it." There was something in the Lord's tone that convinced Walter it would be wiser to obey. He raised his head and looked up at the Lord. The Lord examined his captive at his leisure. There was still signs of the beating he had taken; the bruising was in the yellow stage but his eyes were no longer swollen shut. The Lord took another sip of his wine. "Come here. No, on your hands and knees, like the pet you are." Walter stopped half way to the Lord. Waited. "Here!" snarled the Lord, pointing to the floor by his feet. "The chain, my Lord, is not long enough." It was the first time the Lord had heard Walter speak. He had screamed very well when ordered to, but never before had spoken. His voice was raspy, with a touch of rawness. He stayed as he was, on all fours, waiting. The Lord slowly stood up, placed his cup on the small table and came to verify that indeed the chain was taut, at the limit of the length Morlan had allowed him to have. He followed it to the ring in the wall, used the key that Morlan had handed him the first night to open the lock. He wrapped the loose chain around his hand and went back to his seat, Walter heeling at his feet. The Lord sat, tilted back his chair so that it balanced on the back legs, rested his heels on the table. Cup in hand, he took his time looking over what he had hoped would provide more gold for his coffers. There was still one chance that David would ransom his best general, at the Home Port, so he would need to hold back his desire to inflict as much damage as he could on this particular pet. Usually, if he took a plaything with him on his voyage, it was a prisoner who deserved whatever he meted out. As Rufus well knew, his pets were not known for their long lives. But he would have to hold back with this one, at least until he knew for certain if David were going to pay for his return. Still, there was a certain amount of leeway. And the man had courage, he had to grant him that. Walter knelt, silent, head up while he examined him. He wondered just how much humiliation the great General would endure before he lashed out. It might be amusing to test his limits. "Stand up." Walter slowly rose to his feet, hands open and loose at his side. The bruising on his body was also in its final colours. The open wounds had scabbed over, including the strange symbols he had carved into unbroken skin. "Turn." The man's body bore sign of his life as a warrior: there were old scars visible under the new ones he was developing. His back, ass, thighs were crisscrossed with the marks of the whips Rufus's men had used on him. "Again. Face me." The body, for all its misuse, was good. Was better than good. For a man his age—he had to be at least thirty—his body was tight, with no signs of the fat so many soldiers developed in times of peace. But then, Walter of Fen had not known much peace under his king. The shoulders were wide, the result of years of swinging a double-edged blade that was nearly the size of a man. And he had heard that Walter could swing it in both directions, right and left, equally well. The arms bore proof of that as well. The hands were large, well able to hold firmly the hilt of such a sword. The Lord wondered how he might handle the lighter, yet better made, weaponry of his forges. The chest was also well muscled, with a dusting of hair over the pecs. Widely spaced brown nipples had somehow escaped the knives of Rufus's men. The diaphragm was well toned, the rib cage rather more defined than normal, he thought: the man had not been fed much more than survival rations. Hips were narrow, leading to legs with thighs that easily supported the weight of the man's upper body fully dressed in fighting gear. He was taller than most men, almost the same height as himself. They would both stand out in a room-full of people. Lazily, the Lord reached out with a hand to play with the man's penis. It had escaped with nothing but a few light cuts that would barely scar. It was a good tool for playing with, thought the Lord, thick and long, went well with the rest of the body. As did the balls resting in their sac: he took one in his hand, casually squeezed, checking out his pet's reaction as he did so. Nothing. The man had himself well in hand. The Lord laughed out loud at his unintended pun. He squeezed harder, got a grimace in return. A tightening of the jaw. He released the man. "Turn. Stop." In spite of the scars the back was as well developed as the front. With a very good ass. The globes were well-formed, tight with muscle, sides slightly concave. He stroked his hand down one, then across to the other. Nice firm cheeks. The scars would disrupt the smoothness of the skin, but even then it would be a good ass to use. "Spread your feet. Bend. Grab your ankles." Good. The scabs all held. He was far enough along in healing not to bleed over the bedclothes. He reached between the spread thighs and grabbed the heavy balls again, rolled them as if judging weight and size. As he would with any stud animal he was purchasing for his farms. He drew a finger firmly along the skin from balls to asshole, then took a moment to check how badly the man had been used. Morlan's ointments greased as well as healed. His finger slipped in easily enough, all things considered. He got his first uncontrolled response from the man he was examining: a gasp and a tightening of the anal muscle around his finger. "Was Rufus right? Were you a virgin?" He moved his finger back and forth several times. Rougher when he didn't get an immediate answer. "It is a sin to lie with men in our church." "Is it? What a curious church you must have. And, of course, you have followed the dictates of this church religiously?" He worked in a second finger. "No, Lord. But men have never appealed to me sexually." He winced at the feel of a third finger rubbing against his hole. He knew the Northerners had different beliefs about male with male sex, knew that he had just handed the Lord a weapon to use against him. He wondered if he were going to end up preferring the dagger and its carving. His memories of the night on Rufus's table were only of pain and invasion. "On your knees, Pet, facing me." The Lord lowered his chair to the floor, left one leg on the table, swung the other over the arm of the chair. Under the long woollen tunic he wore, the cross-gartered leggings stopped just above his knees. He rolled up the bottom of the tunic and revealed himself. "You have a mouth. Have you ever used it to harden a man's tool?" The man slowly shook his head. "Hope then that you learn quickly." He wrapped the chain again around his hand, dragging the man's face into his groin. His mouth remained closed. With his free hand, the Lord pulled out his dagger, placed the tip by his captive's eye. He had no need to say a word. The man's mouth opened and took him in. The Lord had not expected a professional mouthing, but in spite of the "encouragement" he provided, it was obvious that the man had very little, if any, experience in this area. Certainly, as he had admitted, none in the giving, nor, he doubted, much in the receiving. He sheathed his dagger, reached over and pulled the man's hair—he had already lost a crown's worth—up and away from him. "My, my. A real virgin. In all things." The Lord's smile was known to frighten his men. "You, my lord pet, are going to have a very educational sea voyage. By the time we reach port, your ability will be such that even Rufus would hesitate to execute you." He gently stroked the man's face. "But for tonight, I think we will just concentrate on what little experience you do have." He stood up, dragged the man who had not risen to his feet fast enough over to the bed and threw him face down. He placed his open hand in front of the man's face. "Spit, my pet." Then, with a harsh pull on the chain, "Do it." Walter tried to draw what little moisture he had in his mouth to the front in order to spit. The Lord made a growl of displeasure, raised his hand, added a glob of his own before slicking down his cock. The motion along with his irritation, his anger at being held at sea against his will, the idea of ramming his cock into such a firm ass hardened him quickly. He aimed his cock for the asshole he had barely prepared, entered just enough to release his tool and grab the man's hips. He was well pleased with the man's scream when he rammed himself in to the root. Though he did try to muffle his sounds against the blanket, they added to the Lord's pleasure all the time he pulled out and shoved back in to his completion. He waited until his cock softened to pull out, checked to see if there was any blood. Barely any. Morlan's ointments were goose grease based. He would have Morlan make up a special batch just for use with his pet. He pulled on the chain, led the stumbling man back to his dark corner, relocked the chain, but in such a way that the man would not be able to lie down. That reward would come when he had earned it. The Lord kicked at the man sleeping huddled on his side. Though the winds had picked up, the captain calculated they were still a good six days from Home Port. The Lord, never at his best at sea, had held his curses to a voice only those on the upper deck could hear. Word quickly spread throughout the ship that the Lord was seriously displeased with the length of the voyage. Morlan knew that the timing would mean their journey beyond the Barrier of Snow might be difficult. That the Lord's Northern men would be waiting at the Barrier went without saying: the Lady would see to it that they would arrive there in time to meet their Lord. Still, she did not have that much control over the weather and with the shorter span of light, the trip would have its treacherous moments. Walter had heard the Lord enter the cabin, knew by the tread of his feet that he was enraged. Knew enough to roll with the kick to protect himself. By now, he was experienced enough with the Lord's desires to quickly kneel, push the hem up of the Lord's tunic and to take him in mouth. The last few days had put an end to whatever inexperience he had had at the start of the voyage. Under the Lord's personal tutorage, he now knew several ways to defer the Lord's temper. And he used them to good stead. A man trained to look, to listen for nuances on the field of battle, he had quickly learned to improvise on the particular plays of tongue on cock that made the Lord's breath come more quickly, that allowed him to forget for a moment that he was confined on a small ship in a large ocean with only a sea-worthy captain to direct them to the safety of Home Port. Because Walter was also a man of the land, he recognized a fellow land-lover's distrust of the sea, a distrust that barely covered the Lord's fear. Because he shared the Lord's cabin, he knew how little the man slept, how fitfully when he did sleep. Maybe he should have pretended to be slower at catching on to these new skills the Lord wanted him to have: except that being denied rest, food were good incentives for a man determined to survive. He finished off swallowing the Lord's come, continued paying court to the now softening member. Hands that had held his head steady didn't, this time, ease their grip on his hair and ears. Instead they tilted his head up. "You show much talent, my pet. You were wasted on the field of battle," the Lord's tone mocked him. Walter wisely remained silent: the Lord was looking for a fight, an excuse to beat someone. He would not give him more of an opening than he could. The Lord raised one of his hands, as for a blow. Walter braced himself: the Lord could and had made him see stars during the initial stages of his training. Instead, the hand still holding his head dropped away and the Lord turned to sit in his chair. He said nothing for a long time then looked up at his still waiting pet and asked, "Do you play chess?" Walter was taken by surprise. He didn't answer right away. The Lord sighed, reached over and poured himself a cup of wine. "Yes, Lord." "Hmm?" The Lord sipped at his drink, having already forgotten the question he'd tossed out in sheer boredom. "I play chess." The Lord looked at the naked man, kneeling, a trace of his semen still whitening his lips. There were new bruises colouring his face and body, testimony to the frustrations he took out on him. The slowness of progress had made him forget just who this man was. "Morlan!" The Lord yelled loud enough to be heard into the hole. After a minute, the door opened and Morlan stuck his head in. "Aye, my Lord." "Fetch another chair." Morlan looked from his Lord to the Lord's pet. "Another chair, my Lord?" The Lord looked up from his examination of the contents of his cup. "What is it that you don't understand about my request, Morlan?" In a voice that told Morlan this was not a time to question. He came back in less than a minute with a stool. "Will this do, my Lord?" The Lord gestured his acceptance. "And another cup for wine." Morlan raised an eyebrow at the request but went and fetched another cup from the Lord's baggage. He placed it on the table and waited for further orders. He was waved out. The Lord stood up, went over to the baggage and rummaged around making a bit of a mess of Morlan's neat packing. Well, it would give the man something to do besides hover over him. With a small smile of triumph, he pulled out the box he had accepted as part of the his share from the spoils of the battle. The Lord had heard about this game: warfare on a board. He had been told by some ambassador of some southern land that it was a way of honing skills during times of peace. So when it had come up for selection among the leaders of troops, he had taken it: not that anyone else had wanted the box with its carved men and figures. He lay the box on the table, signalled Walter to come sit on the stool. Walter watched with great wariness as the Lord poured him some wine, wisely watered it as he had had no spirits since before his capture. "Now then, pet, you say you know this game." The Lord sipped his unwatered wine. "Well?" "Yes, Lord, fairly well." The Lord smiled coldly. "Good. Since I have taught you the proper way of handling a man's tool, you may now return the favour and teach me this game." Walter thought a moment, made bold to ask, "Does the Lord know anything at all about the game?" "No. Apart from the name, its reputation, I know nothing. Like you were, I am a virgin at this. I give you leave to deflower me." "And if the deflowering should prove painful, Lord?" The Lord smiled at the boldness of his pet. "Then I should hope to have the courage you've shown and bear with it." Their eyes held for a long moment before Walter's went to the box. Carefully, in case the Lord had a change of mind, he opened the box, removed the intricately carved pieces of ebony and ivory, turned the box over and began explaining the lay of the squares, the names of each piece and its role in play. The Lord, like Walter, was a quick learner. They were in the middle of a tightly played game when Morlan came to stand by the table, waiting to be noticed. The Lord took his time moving the man he hoped would stymie his pet's movement for a bit, deigned to notice Morlan. "What is it?" Morlan hated to bring this news. The Lord, since he and his captive had begun playing this strange game, was much calmer. "One of the men has been caught stealing, my Lord." "So? You know the penalty. Why are you bothering me with this?" "The man claims to be a King's man. Says he has a paper that excuses him from all penalty of any kind on pain of the King's displeasure. Says that means we can't execute him." The Lord's expression did not bode well. "He says all that, does he?" He picked up the king from the board, examined it carefully. After a bit he stood, placed the figure back in its square. "Remind me the next time his supreme majesty Rufus contracts for an alliance to double the cost." He went out to deal justice under his command. Morlan began putting the pieces away in the box, ignoring the faint protest Walter caught before it left his mouth. He nodded towards the man's pallet and made a pretence of putting the room to rights. The Lord had left the door open and Morlan did not bother to close it. They could both hear the confident responses of the man who thought he had his liege lord's security to get away with anything he wanted. The cold dispersal of that idea by the Lord. The man's increasingly panicky insistence that the Lord read his letter of carte blanche. The Lord's mocking answer that it was a pity that no one on board ship was a reader of these words. "Get the General! The General reads! He will read this to you! You will know that you court the King's displeasure! I have the King's permission to do as I see fit in my service of his work!" "I find it hard to understand how stealing a man's purse is covered in the service of even such a king as Rufus. Bind him." The man screamed, "You can't execute me! There are others here who will report to the King and he will seek revenge for any disregard of his specific orders!" "Ah," the Lord's voice sent shivers down Walter's spine, "the orders are against execution. But men can die of other causes." Over the next hour the man's screams were the only sounds heard throughout the ship. As they finally weakened, Walter caught a look Morlan sent his way. He knew the calm the Lord had felt was long gone: that Morlan knew he would be the recipient of the Lord's new humour. He tried to find some resource within himself. Though his servicing of the Lord had continued interspersed among the chess lessons, the anger and fear with which he was taken had lessened. He did not need Morlan's look of pity to understand that the rest of the day would be hard. He put a finger in his mouth, wet it as heavily as he could with his saliva. Morlan watched as the Lord's pet used his finger to open himself for dealing with the Lord's temper. After a moment, he went over to the baggage, came back with a small pot. "Bend over." He used first one finger, then two, heavily greased with the ointment he had used on the man when he first doctored him. "Where does he use you?" Walter pointed to the bed. Morlan nodded towards it. Walter rose, went to the limit of his chain and placed his chest on the bed, spread his legs as wide apart as he could and still brace himself on the floor. He wrapped his hands in the bedclothes and hoped that he would not be torn too badly. Morlan left the room. He did not have long to wait. The Lord's temper re-echoed as he came down the steps to the cabin. He still held Deathbringer in his hand, bloodied from its carving off pieces of the man's body. He stopped in the doorway, seeing his pet in position, waiting for him. "Why, pet, have you missed me?" He took a deep breath, trying to control the blood lust still raging through his body. He managed well enough to walk up to the ass waiting for penetration. He was under control enough to realize that the man had already been prepared for him. He flipped Deathbringer around, used the pommel of the hilt to trace a line down the displayed spine, pass the hole, down to the balls. Back up to the hole. Walter gripped the bedclothes tighter and knew that the pommel would tear him up probably worse than he had been by Rufus and his men. The Lord watched the hands whiten against the darkness of the wool blanket, the shoulders hunch as his pet realized just what was coming next. But it was only the Lord's hard cock that rammed into him. That rocked itself to a quick orgasm. Walter lay very still, not daring to believe that only this would alleviate the Lord's temper. The Lord lay spent, resting on the broad back that had tensed for much more. He didn't move for several minutes. "By the gods, pet! You need a bath. And if you, who don't even have the excuse of wearing clothes, stink," he pushed himself up into a sitting position, "then I must reek." He looked down at the man still braced to defuse his bad humour. With a finger he traced one of the curious symbols he had carved on his shoulder. "The captain assures me we will be in Home Port by tomorrow." His voice was quiet, tired. "Pray the gods he is right, pet. I don't think I can take much more of this." He bent and placed a gentle kiss on the carved shoulder. They made it into Home Port, the next night, just as a storm came up. The Lord was the first one down the gang-plank. He headed straight away for the castle and its lord, wanting a bath, hoping that a message there awaited him from King David. Morlan saw to it that the Lord's pet came along with the baggage. Betrayal The Lord sat in a chair by the fire in one of the castle's smaller attendant rooms. On a table before him was a jug of wine, a goblet. Its twin, he held in his hand. On the floor by his side knelt the freshly cleaned Walter, still naked, still collared, its chain lying loose on the Lord's lap. The Lord was almost in a jovial mood. He was on land. He had bathed, washed his hair, shaved, put on clean clothes. He had eaten well of fresh meat. He had slept well upon hearing that an envoy from Ackland was indeed waiting to meet with him. The day had been spent in the business of paying off the men who would leave him here for their own towns and villages. All he kept with him were the bodyguards who would escort him to the Barrier of Snow, then leave for their own homes. Only he and Morlan would continue beyond the Barrier. He looked over to the man who knelt patiently waiting. His pet had no idea that he was the subject of this meeting. He too had been well fed, allowed to bathe. Still the hardships of the journey to this place were easy to read on his face and body. The Lord admitted to himself that he would miss the company of this pet. And not just for the game playing. A side door opened and shut quietly and soft footsteps heralded the presence of King David's envoy. "My Lord Krycek," said an unctuous voice. Walter looked up, recognizing the voice of one of Prince William's lackeys. The Lord merely looked up from his wine. "You have the gold?" The lackey looked a bit taken aback. He had not expected such a blunt beginning. "In a way, my Lord." "There is only one way to have gold, Envoy. I offered King David the life of his best general in return for a certain quantity of gold. You either have it or you do not. I assume that your presence means that you do, else why come all this way." Walter pulled himself into full alert: the lackey was not a member of the King's court, but of the Prince's. The lackey poured some of the wine into the goblet, rather miffed that he had to do this himself. The Mercenary should have been the one to attend to him. He sipped the excellent wine, made himself comfortable in the chair at the other side of the fire. He took his time both with the drink and with his pleased examination of the arrogant Sir Walter in what, he felt, was such an appropriate position for him. The Lord watched the interplay between his pet and the envoy. There was something wrong. Carefully his hand went to Deathbringer, casually resting on the hilt. The envoy, eyes still holding Sir Walter's, spoke. "It is my sad duty to inform you, my lord, that King David died soon after the battle that saw his army routed. There is much talk that it was betrayed. By someone who, it has been assumed, had died at King Rufus's hands." Walter bite back a growl of protest. There was more coming and he preferred to hoard what strength he had for the real battle. "King William," continued the envoy, "feels he has little need for such a man. A man, who even if it could be proven that he is innocent of this accusation, would still not be welcomed by the King for his arrogance, his lack of respect, his despoiling of the royal personage." The Lord cocked an eyebrow at the envoy, "Pet. You seemed to have done something to displease your new liege lord." "I unhorsed him, Lord." Walter sneered. The Lord had never heard such a tone from him. He realized that there would be no ransom paid. Still, a letter would have sufficed: why was the envoy here? "Unhorsed him?" "Yes, Lord. Two years ago. At a joust. He challenged me." "I see," the Lord smiled coldly at the envoy. The smile made the envoy uneasy. "Was that hard to do?" "No, my Lord. Quite easy. Prince William sits a horse badly." "King William to you, traitor!" "No traitor," interrupted the Lord. "I was there. I can name you the traitor, if you like." "No need." The envoy took out a purse from his tunic, opened it, poured out the gold the Lord had asked for. "The King is quite willing to pay you the amount you requested." "For?" "For ridding him of this traitor." "My Lord," Walter interrupted, "I can match that amount for my life." "Really? And how do you intend to find this amount of gold, traitor?" The lackey leaned over, eyes glittering in the fire light. "I have rich lands.." "You had rich lands. You no longer have them. Dead traitors forfeit all property to the Crown to disperse as his majesty sees fit." The envoy rose, smiling maliciously. "His most gracious majesty has seen fit to gift the lands to his dear friend, Harold, your half-brother. You may rest assured that he will not put his new position, his new power in jeopardy for one such as you, my lord general. Surely even you are aware of the hatred he bears you." The envoy turned to the Lord. He pulled out another purse, opened it and poured out more gold. "From Lord Harold, as extra incentive." Walter thought of the time from his capture, through the sea voyage, till now, when he had done his best to stay alive in hopes that he might be able to escape. Now, even if he succeeded, he had no place to go. No country. No lord to serve. No lands. No home to go back to. They'd even taken his honour away from him. The first hysterical laugh broke from him. Everything he had endured, for nought. He tried hard to stop the laughter, but couldn't. The Lord looked at the man who sat on his heels, laughing like a maniac. Unlike the envoy, he had a good idea as to the reason. While waiting for the man to control the sound, he reached over to the table, played with some of the gold. Another goodly amount that would keep his people alive through hard times. The envoy was made nervous by the sound of Walter's laughter, the way the Lord ignored it. He stood up, made to repack the gold when the Lord's hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. He thought for a moment the bones would snap under the pressure of the Lord's grip. "Does anyone know why you are here, envoy?" "No, my Lord. No one here at the castle." "And in Ackland?" "Only the king, Lord Harold and the king's new commander of his forces." "And that would be?" "Why, General Morley, the king's beloved cousin." Walter had almost gotten his laughter in hand, literally. He had stuffed both hands into his mouth to still the noise, wondering if he would have a voice left before the Lord finished with him. The Lord stood, smiled a terrifying smile at the envoy. "A death for the gold. Agreed." He came to stand in front of the man who was now visibly bracing himself for death. Walter took a chance. "Lord. Please, Lord." "Yes? You seek a boon, my pet?" He placed Deathbringer in front of him, point to the floor. "If it please you, Lord," though he knew it probably wouldn't, "let it be quick." "A quick death? Well, if that is what you prefer, why not?" Walter raised himself on his knees, held himself straight, arms by his side. "Thank you, Lord," he whispered as he closed his eyes. The envoy approached, mouth agape, eyes wide open for fear of missing the slightest detail he could report to the three men who awaited his return. Deathbringer rose, swung. It was not a clean cut through the throat. Rather the blade caught the man at ear level, sliced off the top half of his head. There was no sound other than the first "splart" as the part hit the floor and a soft "thud" as the rest of the body followed. "I'm surprised, Pet. I would have thought a slow death was worthy of all that betrayal." Walter opened his eyes, met the ironic eyes of the Lord. He found the envoy's body, slowly tracked the line of blood to the bloodied head. The Lord turned back to the table, filled up the purses with the gold, then went to the door, opened it, yelling for his bodyguards. He complained, loudly for the benefit of the guards, his host, his host's servants, of the sad condition of the state of affairs when a representative of a noble king betrays that king's trust and tries to steal from him. His host knew better than to challenge the Lord's veracity. He gave orders for the body to be removed, the floor cleaned and bowed the Lord and his captive out of the room. Morlan put the gold away with the rest, went to tell the guards to be ready to move in the morning: there would be no further rest for them. Walter knelt dazed in the middle of the Lord's chamber, barely aware of the activity around him. The Lord's baggage was moved out to the stables where the guards would place it on the pack ponies for their departure before first light. The Lord spoke briskly to Morlan, in the language that Walter didn't understand. Morlan started to protest, saw the Lord's face and shut up. He came back into the room some minutes later with a bowl of lightly steaming broth. He placed it in Walter's hands, brought it up to his mouth where eventually the man understood and took a mouthful. Even in the state he was in, Walter had no trouble recognizing the potion from the early part of their journey. With no further help from Morlan, he drank down the contents. The Lord waited until the drugs had almost dragged him under to order Walter to his pallet. He barely made it before he dropped into sleep. The Lord went over and crouched by his side. He pulled the blanket that was always carefully folded at the foot of the pallet over the drugged man. Walter was no better in the morning. He was bruisingly kicked awake by Morlan, barely ate what was given him. He looked at the clothes Morlan placed in his hands as though they were something he had never before seen. With a disgusted snort, Morlan dressed him in layers of thick woollen clothing so necessary for survival beyond Home Port. Morlan had made his opinion clear on his Lord's decision to bring the captive along to the end of their journey. It had only earned him a kick as the Lord made his way out to supervise the packing of the ponies for the journey north and home. Most were mounted on the sturdy mountain ponies when Morlan dragged out the stumbling Walter. They got him onto one of the ponies, led it to stand by the Lord's who held his hand out for the chain. He looped it and the pony's lead about his gloved hand, led his men out of the castle. With luck, stamina, they would reach the Barrier of Snow within five days. They had the luck: the weather held dry, not too cold for this time of the year. They made the first night's stop in good time. The inn was not particularly large: the rooms were small to conserve heat. The Lord saw to it that the ponies, his men were well cared for before finding his room, supper and bed. Walter sat on his pallet, staring stupidly at the bowl of food in his hands. Everything came to him as through a fog. It took him some time to understand that the Lord was calling him. Slowly, he made his way to the Lord's side. "Stand up, pet." The Lord waited until his pet had complied with his wish. The eyes of the man were more lifeless than they had been even those first days. He had seen men with eyes like that before: men who had drawn into themselves and quietly died in their souls long before their bodies followed suit. "Take the clothes off, pet." He had to repeat his order before the man understood. In the chilly room, barely heated by the brazier, Walter took his clothes off, and waited the Lord's pleasure. The Lord was surprised by the difference between this body and the one he had examined in another place, at another time. The journey had been hard on all of them, most especially on this man, now honed to bone and sinew. The shoulders were still there, less muscled from the lack of exercise, but still large. As were the arms, the hands. The rib cage was far more defined: the ship's fare had been scant for them all. The legs were thinner, probably for the same reason. He could count the ribs in the man's body with very little effort. He had lost more hair, his scalp showed more than the crown. What was left would soon be long enough to be worn braided, Northern style. The face was leaner, the mouth more defined. The eyes were bare of all emotion, all awareness: his betrayal had drained the last of his resources, his energy. He trembled in the cold of the room. "Get into my bed." The Lord watched his pet take his usual position, chest on the bed, legs apart. He went over and gently passed a hand along the man's back. "No, pet. In the bed." He waited until the man had made his way under the furs and linen to blow out the only light in the room. Taking off his tunic, the Lord joined the man waiting for him, made him turn around so that his back was to his chest, wound the chain loosely around his arm. He pulled the man in close: gradually his body heat replaced the coolness of the man's skin. Walter waited to be taken: he could feel the Lord's cock nestle against his ass. He was still waiting when he fell asleep. Beyond the Barrier of Snow There was no more, no less snow on the ground at the Barrier of the Snow. The Barrier was a jet of stone that rose sideways out of the ground, like a crust of the earth's surface that had been forced up. Beyond it, the land was rough, sparsely populated by men, and women, far more barbaric, it was said, than the Lord himself. There was a small building nestled under the Barrier, with a shelter for ponies. There, the Lord's own men, blood to himself and Morlan, were waiting for them when they rode up at mid-day of the fifth day north. The men who rode with the Lord waited until he gave the signal and then silently turned around and began their journey back. The Lord and Morlan got off their ponies, while the Lord's true men gathered the leads of the pack animals, pulled them into the shelter of the Barrier. The presence of the third man, hunched over the neck of his pony did not go unnoticed. Only when the Lord had entered the building did the leader of the men turn to Morlan and growl, nodding his head toward the human mound. "Don't ask," advised Morlan. He grabbed the captive's chain, hauled him off the pony and led him into the heat by the hearth. There was a hasty meal eaten and Morlan forced a bowl of heated broth into the unresisting man. "Lord," he had to try again: the man was in no condition to travel into the Lord's lands. Moreover, there was a good chance he would hold them back. "No." Morlan did not understand why the Lord was so insistent. "Go see if they brought the mottled pony and if they have, transfer its baggage to another. It is strong enough to carry his weight." He waited till they were alone to go over to the man. The Lord quietly examined him. For the last four nights he had had the man in his bed, his ass to his cock and not once had he made use of him. The man had fought well and loyally for his king and, for reward, had been betrayed, had lost his position, his honour, his country, his lands. Killing him might be the kind thing to do, but the Lord wondered if something might not be salvaged out of all this. He put his hands to the man's neck and unlocked the clasp that held the chain to the collar. He tossed the chain to a corner of the room, gently stroked his thumbs over the now again bearded cheeks of his pet. Slowly Walter raised his head. He met the eyes of the Lord, waited, knowing that the man wanted his attention. The Lord dropped his hands to the collar that circled his neck. Eyes still holding, the Lord released the collar, tossed it into the same corner as the chain. The collar had rubbed the skin practically to a callus. The Lord smiled at the man he had called his pet, slowly caressed the scarred neck. "Walter. You have a choice of sorts to make. I can kill you. Quickly. Leave your body for the wolves to find. Or you can take a chance and follow me. "I will not hide from you that the wolves may be a kinder choice. The land is hard, the life harder. But you have skills you could teach us as we have skills to teach you. And there are always possibilities in choosing life, difficult as it may be. "There is another consideration that may affect your choice. You will continue sharing my bed, servicing me when I so please." He passed a thumb over the still closed mouth. "But in return I promise to use you kindly, to teach you to receive the pleasure you give me. If for no other reason," the Lord's smile was almost rueful, "than to keep warm at night. The nights beyond will grow much colder than the ones we've had up till now. "So, what say you, Walter: a quick death or a hard life? Which shall it be?" Walter frowned his thinking. The Lord waited patiently, knowing that outside his men were not. Finally Walter nodded, began rising to his feet. "Is it necessary to dose me with those drugs?" "No." The Lord rose with the man. "It would far be better if you were not drugged. The path we follow requires care." "If I should ask for death at a later time, would the offer of a quick one still apply?" "Yes. You have my promise on that." Walter sighed: the strength of his will to live surprised him. "Well, then I choose to follow you." The Lord smiled at his man, gently pulled the heavy cape he wore around his shoulder close, used one of his precious pins to hold it shut. He reached for the fur hat that lay on the table and settled it with great care on his man's head. He put another on his own head, smiled. "Then we had better be on our way. The weather here waits for no man." The Lady The journey was as harsh as the Lord had warned. There was more snow, the winds were colder and shelter was minimal. Though the escort was obviously not happy with the presence of the third man, no one dared challenge the Lord, especially since, every night, he and the man shared the Lord's sleeping space. It took them several days to work their way over the mountain ridge that effectively kept out any from the more southern areas. There were pathways through the mountains, but one had to know where they were and to have ponies that were surefooted and strong. At one point, Walter looked down into an abyss they were shirting and thought that death would be a long way off for anyone who fell. His stomach threatened to choke him, but the mottled pony seem to take the narrow ledge very much in stride. The Lord kept his promise: there were no more drugs. Morlan seemed more irritable the further north they went; the Lord, more relaxed. Walter often caught him just looking about at the scenery, a smile on his face. He understood the Lord's feelings: so had he felt when he had returned to his lands. Their escort were men taller than what he was used to in the South: they neared his size and height. The language they spoke was guttural compared to the liquid flows of southern speech, but Walter was surprised to find that he was beginning to make out words, even to recognize what some of the sounds meant. He stayed quiet, listening, watching, gradually more alert than he had been in Home Port and the days following. As they began descending into the valleys, the terrain changed. There were obviously fields under the covering of snow. Here and there were groupings of houses, out-buildings, where people came out and greeted the Lord with pleasure. The Lord stopped at every gathering, listened to what seemed to be a report by one of the group, made some comment that often brought smiles or serious head nodding. Once on their way, the Lord would make some comment to Morlan—who never passed up an opportunity to glare at Walter riding next to the Lord—and he would pull out what seemed to be a pad for writing, make some notations and return to his place in the line. The valleys were well treed, with a tall, straight trunked variety that Walter had never seen. They had small spiky leaf-type growths that even in this weather were still on the trees, still green. On the sunny days, what little sun there seemed to be, he could see animals out in the yards of some of the out-buildings. All bushier, smaller than southern types: still he could identify cattle, ponies, sheep, even a species of pig that looked as though it were wearing a long, shaggy coat. There were beginning to be more and more people, more villages. Everywhere the Lord was welcomed back with pleasure, with courtesy. Walter found himself wondering if the people of Ackland would be greeting their new king in such a way. The Prince William he knew was self-centred, cared only about his needs, tolerated around him only those who flattered him constantly. He was the son of David's first queen, raised by her parents after the queen had died in childbirth, raised to be very aware of his future position and the honours that were owed to him. Walter had been dozing on his pony when, on the sixth day, they came to a stop. He thought they must be in another village, looked up and found that they were at the mouth of a small valley, all staring at a large building nestled in the side of a very large hill. It was made of the logs of the tall trees, stacked sideways, one on top of another. From the openings that dotted the front, he guessed that it was at least three storeys in height. To the right, there were several out-buildings of the same construction. The roofs were sod, though here and there, a small bush had taken root. The Lord turned to Walter, face lit up by his grin. "We're home." And he kicked his pony into a gallop. With no encouragement from him, Walter's pony raced the Lord's into the open yard. The others were not far behind, making a whooping sound to announce their arrival. Walter slid off, watched the welcome the other men were receiving. Even Morlan, grumpy as he had been, wore a huge smile, made larger when a young woman, calling his name, ran into his open arms and rained kisses all over his face. The Lord's greeting was more circumspect: still he was grabbed by some of the big men, hugged off his feet. There were shouts, laughter, dogs barking. Walter stayed by his pony, watching, ignored by all. Even in his lands, he thought, he would not have received such a welcome. Suddenly, there was a hushed silence. He looked up, watched as a woman came out of the centre door, stood on the roofed platform that surrounded the building itself. She was dressed all in white skins that, on closer view, would prove to be heavily embroidered in varying shades of white to silver. Her boots were made of a dense white fur. She was not as tall as those around her, but she had a presence that was easily felt. Her head was uncovered. There were traces of grey among the dark red hair braided and riband in white. She was not in the first bloom of youth, but could be any age. Until Walter saw her eyes, blue as the sky, and realized from their look that she was much older than she seemed. The Lord went up to her, bowed. She held out her hands and he took them in his, respectfully kissed both of them. She said something that made those listening smile. What he answered made them laugh. She smiled at him fondly. Morlan was next to get her attention. He had released the young woman who stood very close to him, a hand on the back of his cloak, as if not to lose contact with him. His bow was deeper. The woman in white held out a hand to him and he too took it in his, kissed it, reverentially. The meeting between them was more formal. The woman spoke and the noise and chaos sprang back up. She turned to go back into the building when the Lord said something that stopped her. She raised a rather haughty eyebrow at his words, but stayed where she was, only signalling those who had accompanied her to go in. "Walter," called the Lord. Walter made his way through the small crowd to the Lord's side. The Lord spoke in low tones to the woman who stood, quietly examining Walter. Who returned the favour. Even after the Lord stopped speaking, they just looked at each other. Walter knew that he was being measured. He stood for it, patiently, wondering just who this woman was and why the Lord, who never sought anyone's opinion, stood silently waiting beside him. With an expression far more serious than he'd so far seen, she reached out and touched his cheek, her fingertips barely stroking the skin above his beard. Her touch was warm, the skin of her fingertips soft, unworked. "You are welcome under this roof as the Lord's choice." She smiled openly at his surprise. Though accented, she spoke the words in his language with ease. Walter felt the tension that had built up in the Lord while she had scrutinized him disperse. He turned, and in Walter's language, made introductions. "Lady, may I present Lord Walter of Fen, lately of Ackland, General to the late King David." The Lady held out a hand and smiled as Walter took it in his, bowed his best court bow and passed his lips barely on the skin of the back of her hand. "Lord Walter," the Lady acknowledged, "you will make an interesting addition to our household." She took back her hand. "Both of you look to be in need of the bath house. The staff there is waiting for you." She directed her look to the Lord. "I will await your report until you have bathed and eaten. My lords." And disappeared through the door. Walter hesitated before following the Lord up the steps, along the platform to a door that led into a smaller building attached to the main one. The bath house was something completely out of his experience. First, there was the heat. A wet heat that almost made the skin burn on coming in from the cold. Along one of the walls was a series of hooks where the Lord was hanging his cloak. There were benches for sitting on while one of the white-dressed staff, a woman, helped the Lord remove his boots. A hand pushed him out of his surprise, to the bench where he too was divested of his cloak, his boots. His clothes. When both he and the Lord were naked, they were taken to the back room. Here the air was thick with warm moisture. Walter was pointed to a stool where he sat down. The woman began by shaving him. When done to her satisfaction, the other poured a bucket of almost too hot water over him. His gasp made the two women attending to him laugh. Before he could say something, they were rubbing his body with a cloth that lathered. They made him stand, giggled at his discomfort when they took his penis and balls in hand. He was used to being washed on his visits to noble houses, but never with such intimate attention. They said something to the Lord that made him look over to Walter and roar. They pushed him back onto the stool, pour another bucket of water over him, and then another when they determined he needed more rinsing. Still wet, he was pushed to join the Lord who by now was sitting at the edge of a small pool, waiting for him. "The water is hot, Walter. Enter it slowly. There is a ledge for sitting." And the Lord slipped into the water, lowering his body until he could sit, the water lapping his collarbone. Walter carefully copied him until he too was sitting in hot water up to his neck. The attendants left them alone. "By the gods, I missed this," moaned the Lord. "You southerners may have more temperate climes, but you have no notions on the proper form of bathing." Walter rested his head back on the edge of the underwater bench. The heat penetrating his body made him sigh. "Maybe it is because we don't have waters such as this. What is this, Lord?" "Compensation for the cold and the long dark winters. A hot pool. They exist here and there throughout the land. Their presence usually determines the location and size of villages. This is one of the larger ones. The Lords of the past wisely decided to build around it. Its heat also helps warm the main house." "And the lady, who was she?" The Lord rolled his head over to look at his companion. The green eyes appeared years younger than they had on the journey. "The Lady. She has no other name. She is our seer. Our communication to the gods. This is her House; this, her Land. I, and others who have come before me, serve her and her people." He smiled at Walter's frown. "You'll understand after a while." They sat peaceably in the hot water, letting the stress and strains drain out of them. Muscles relaxed, tensions departed in the all-encompassing warmth. Walter thought that if he slept, he would have no muscles, no spine to keep him from slipping into the water and drowning. Fortunately, before that happened, the attendants returned, carrying long drying sheets which they wrapped around the two men before leading them into another room. Here they were handed over to two different women who led them to tables where they were made to lie down. Walter knew a few minutes later that he really had no muscles, no bones left in his body. He was nothing but a puddle under the knowing hands of the woman who was massaging out the bits of tension that had been so long part of him that he never noticed them any more. He was dozing when she slapped him on the ass to get his attention and helped him carefully roll over. This time, when he slept, she let him, only going as far as to cover him with a dry sheet when she had finished with his body. The Lord was also sleeping. She nodded to his attendant and made a comment about the body she had worked on. The two women grinned at each other. A finger stroking his shaved face woke him. He opened his eyes to find the Lord, hip resting against his table. "It's time to dress. We are expected in the Great Hall for the evening meal." But neither of them moved. Walter lay still under the Lord's moving finger. His touch was different from what he had experienced in the past. Before, the Lord had touched him only to hold him in place for his satisfaction. Now he seemed to be taking the time to explore the structure of his face. Carefully, as if not to frighten him, the Lord bent and passed his lips slowly over Walter's. With a gentle nudge, he parted the closed mouth and slipped his tongue in to taste his man. In all of their encounters, he had never before done this. Walter opened his mouth a bit more, passively allowed the Lord's tongue to inspect him, to lick the roof of his mouth, to examine his teeth, to slowly rouse his tongue to play. When he pulled away, the Lord's eyes had darkened in colour: Walter's just watched warily. He was used to the Lord's brutality, not his gentleness. The noise of people approaching made the Lord stand and offer his hand to help Walter off his table. These attendants led them back to the first room, where new, clean clothing waited for them, piled on the bench by new boots. The clothing was of a heavier weave than used in the south, the colours darker yet more vibrant. The Lord pulled on a high-necked undertunic of cream, followed that with an open-necked tunic whose verdant colour made his eyes greener still. His boots were ornately decorated with a design that Walter realized matched the new scars he bore on his body. Walter's over-tunic was of a blue so dark it almost looked black. His boots, which he was surprised to find fit him perfectly—his large foot had proved difficult to shod with family boots when he had visited on the King's business—were more plainly decorated with the same design. The Great Hall was like any other Great Hall he had visited. There were tressled tables set up for eating, with benches on both sides. On the raised platform at the head was another table set up for seating only on the one side. Two large fireplaces took up a goodly amount of space on either side wall. There were no tables in front of them, allowing the heat to disperse through the hall. Sitting in the centre of the head table, in a high- backed chair, was the Lady, still dressed all in white, but woollens, not skins this time. Her tunic was also decorated in the design that Walter now had no trouble recognizing. The Lord took his place in another high-backed chair to the right of the Lady. Walter was directed to sit in a lower backed chair at the end of the table. The rest of the spaces were filled with what Walter assumed were high ranking lords or officials. The meal was similar to those in the south for content if not taste. The spicing was different, but appealing. Apart from a curious glance, Walter was quickly ignored by all but the boy who seemed to have been assigned only to him. His cup was kept filled with a fruity tasting wine, slightly sweeter than what he was used to. He was offered his choice of more meat, or different dishes, as soon as he had eaten what was in front of him. At the sweet portion of the meal, the boy selected for him a particular treat and watched intently as Walter put it into his mouth. There was a mixture of nutty flavours and honey unlike anything he had ever tasted. The boy raised his eyebrows as if asking for his opinion. He gave it by reaching out for another of the small cakes, placing it in his mouth with a smile. The boy grinned back, nodding his head. Then, Walter took yet another and held it to the boy's mouth. It was obviously a favourite of the boy's and, like all those attending at the table, he would be eating after them on what was left over. The boy looked surprised by the offer. He quickly checked that no one around was paying any attention to them. He opened his mouth and Walter pushed the cake in. The boy's mouth was smaller, his cheeks rounded out as he chewed quickly, swallowed before the chief attendant caught him. Walter was worried for a moment he would choke, but the boy managed. They grinned at each other like schoolboys. The Lord caught the grins, knew the boy and could figure out the cause of the boy's grin. The one on Walter's face was the first he'd seen on the man. He felt it in his loins. After the meal, several of the men stood up and made short speeches. The Lord then stood, made one in turn. The contents pleased even the most serious mien. The boy, who had disappeared as the speeches began, now re-appeared and, with a shy tug at Walter's arm, made him understand that he was to follow him. They went up a large ladder-like scaffolding to the next floor, and then a narrower one to the third. There the boy led him along a hallway to a door, opened it, and bowed him in with a cheeky flourish. He followed Walter in. The room was a good size, even by southern standards. In the far wall was another of the open fireplaces, much smaller than the ones in the Great Hall, which provided both heat and light. The boy went around, lighting some of the thick candles that stood on their own stands. He poured Walter a cup of wine, brought it to him. Unlike the one at supper, this one was watered. While the boy occupied himself with throwing more wood onto the fire, Walter explored. In the corner from the fireplace was a large bed, hung with heavy curtains. The side closest the fire was drawn open. Like all material he had seen so far, these were alive with colour. As were the blankets that were piled on the bed, with a heavy white fur cover bunched at the foot. By the table in the centre of the room were some of the boxes that he recognized as belonging to the Lord. He found the chess set on top of one of them, ready to be set up. The outer wall, on either side of the fireplace, was hung with more of the heavy tapestries. Here, on one, he could make out a large bear-like animal, all white, sitting up on its hind legs, looking as though it were granting an audience. On the other, people were working in green fields, a village in the background. There were hooks for the Lord's clothes, chests along one wall; a structure of shelves covered the other. In them, Walter found scrolls of parchment with what seemed to be maps, charts on them. There were others with just notations on them: Walter assumed they were the written form of the language the Lord's people spoke. The boy came up to the shelving, poked around a bit. Then, with a large smile, he pulled out a well travelled folio, handed it to him. Walter was stunned to find himself looking at one of the histories commissioned by the father of King David. The boy tugged on his arm, pointed over to the chair by the fire. When Walter took the seat, still amazed by what he was holding in his hand, the boy pulled up a stool and, using a variety of facial gestures, hand signs, made Walter understand that he wanted to hear what was written. Of course, the boy did not understand a word that was said to him, but the activity, the hearing of his own language eased an ache Walter hadn't allowed himself to acknowledge. After a while, the boy yawned large enough to crack his jaw. Walter ignored his protests, closed the book, and indicated that he should leave. It was obvious the boy wasn't certain he should. Finally, taking him by the shoulder, Walter escorted him to the door, opened it and sent him on his way. Then he went around blowing out the candles: even in a land so foreign to him he knew that these were a luxury not to be wasted. He settled himself in the chair by the fire and fell asleep, waiting for the Lord. He woke in the morning, still in the chair to find that the Lord was sleeping, body on top of the covers of the bed, his booted feet hanging off the side. It looked as though he had just fallen on the bed already asleep. The boy stood grinning at him, what must have awakened him. He pointed to the jug of hot water lightly steaming in the cool air of the room. While Walter performed some morning ablutions, used the pot in the corner of the room, the boy pulled back the heavy tapestries to reveal inside shutters. These he threw open, revealing two windows, one behind each tapestry. A membrane of some kind was spread taut in the openings, allowing light into the room. The boy grinned at him, very pleased by his surprised expression. The fact that there was light, that he could hear the noises of a household at work, told Walter that they had slept far later than usual. The door opened and Morlan entered, carrying another jug, obviously for the Lord. He said something to the boy, making him lose his smile, bow to the still sleeping Lord and leave the room. Walter waited for Morlan to speak to him but was ignored while the man awakened the Lord. The Lord was not easy to rouse. Walter wondered if that were due to feasting after the boy had brought him to the room, or whether reporting to the Lady had taken much time. While Morlan was silently shaving his Lord—Walter knew the Lord had no tolerance for early morning chit- chat—the door opened again, and one of the women attendants from the bath entered carrying clothes for both of them. These were more practical in colour, less fine in weave. "She wants the tunics back," Morlan snapped. Walter still wasn't sure what his position was in the Lord's household. He slowly stripped off the clothes he had slept in, replaced the lighter thews with heavy leggings, the undertunic for a shorter brown one, the over-tunic for a darker brown. The inside boots were taken and the woman said something to Walter. Who looked to Morlan for explanation. "The boots," said the Lord, "will be placed at the inner door for you to use inside. These boots are for outside use only. In this weather, the yards are muddy." He sat up, passed a hand over his face. Apart from a nod, he said nothing to Morlan who just took his shaving knives and left the room, closing the door very quietly behind him. The woman laughed. "Morlan is displeased with my bringing you here." He nodded to the woman who helped him undress and change clothes. He too wore the brown tunics. The door opened again and the boy carried in a tray piled with food for the morning meal. Another boy followed him in, carrying a jug and two bowls. The first lad placed the tray on the corner of the table, made room for the two men to eat. The other lad bowed very seriously to the Lord, made to leave the room. The Lord snapped at him, stopping the now white- faced lad in his tracks. He turned to Walter, made a low bow and rushed out of the room. The woman had also lost her smile at the Lord's tone. She gathered the formal tunics in her arms, curtsied to the Lord, made another to Walter before closing the door behind her. His boy, Walter noted, looked very pleased with the situation. While he served them, the Lord sat trying to rub the sleep from his eyes. He reached for the cup of warmed beer and saw Walter was still standing. For a moment the two men just looked at each other. "Walter, sit down." He waited while Walter sat in the chair the boy had pulled over to the table. "Normally, the morning meal is held in the Hall, but we missed it so for today, we are being spoilt." They ate, not speaking, under the attentive watch of the boy. Besides the beer, there was a flat bread, split open and covered with butter and honey, some of the chicken from the previous evening's meal, apples. "The morning meal is in the Hall," explained the Lord, "as is the evening one. During the day, if you are hungry, ask Rhody here to fetch something from the kitchens." Rhody smiled at the mention of his name. "My Lord," Walter played with the apple, the first fresh fruit he had been given since his capture. "What is my position here?" "Your position?" "Yes, Lord, what I am to do?" He looked up and met the Lord's slightly mocking smile with a small one of his own. "Besides warm your bed at night." "For the next few days, familiarize yourself with the Lady's House, the yards. Maybe even the language? Rhody is quite bright. He can help you with that." He addressed the boy over his shoulder and got an enthusiastic response from him. The boy grinned at Walter. The Lord took one of the apples, rose. "I should be back in time for the evening meal." At the door, he looked over his shoulder at Walter. "If you have trouble with Morlan, you have my permission to beat him. He may need to be reminded that you are not my pet any more." He said something to Rhody and left. A New Life Rhody proved to be an excellent tour guide. He began with the House, using only a word to explain what each room was for. Next to the Lord's bedroom was a storage area that housed linens of all types, some plate that Walter concluded must be used for special occasions. There was another that had a bed in it, obviously for guests as it had no special decorations. The weaving room was at the far end, with three looms set up, each manned by two women who giggled when Rhody showed him in. The boy said something to them; the giggling stopped and they all curtsied to Walter. He bowed back, which had them giggling again. The lower floor, he finally understood, belonged to the Lady and her women. He was shown none of the rooms on this floor. To one side of the Great Hall, through a passageway, were the kitchens, the domain of a tall, thin man who snapped at the boy until he saw he was accompanied by Walter. Then he merely frowned until the boy said something that had the man all smiles. He went over to a side shelf, returned with a platter filled with the nutty sweets from the night before. With a small bow, he offered the platter to Walter. Walter had to swallow a laugh; Rhody was nudging him, obviously wanting him to accept. With a very formal bow, which made the man blush, the kitchen staff—all of whom were watching their little drama—giggle, Walter examined the sweets seriously, then picked out two of them. He put one in his mouth, closed his eyes and, with only slight exaggeration, ate it happily. The kitchen gave a sigh of relief. Rhody, he knew, had his eye on the second treat. Walter pretended to pop it into his mouth, but offered it to the boy. The head cook insisted Walter take a couple more, wrapped them in a cloth and handed them to him. With many smiles, they carried them away. Walter tucked them into a pocket he made between his belt and tunic for eating later on. All through the tour, Rhody would point to things, pronounce their name carefully, have Walter repeat it. In turn, Walter said the name in his language, had Rhody repeat it. It was sometime after mid-day when Rhody led Walter behind the out-building that housed the ponies to an open area where men were practising with swords. For a while, Walter watched, found himself analyzing the movements of the supervisor, an older man, and those of the younger men. From Rhody's deep sigh, he concluded that the boy was considered too young to join in these practices. Morlan was also watching from the sidelines, realized they were there, and face wicked, shouted something aloud to the supervisor. All action stopped. Walter felt Rhody stiffen, then tug gently on his sleeve, obviously wanting him to came back with him. Walter looked to Morlan, saw his pleased grin as the supervisor came strutting up to where Walter stood. Walter placed a calming hand on Rhody's shoulder. The supervisor was about the same size as Walter, maybe a bit older, more run to fat, but he had not lived Walter's life of the last months. One day of gentle treatment did not make up for the many weeks of beatings, deprivations. Walter knew what was about to happen. Thought very carefully before he returned the man's openly condescending evaluation. The man yelled something over his shoulder and one of the young men came charging up, an insolent grin on his face as he offered Walter his sword. Walter hefted the sword—shorter than what he was used to; tested its weight—far less; its balance—finer. He took it in his right hand, swung it a few times, getting the feel of it. The supervisor said something to the youth, who quickly removed the padded vest he wore, offered it to Walter. Walter pointed to the supervisor who wore none. The supervisor laughed, indicated that he didn't need one. Walter shook his head at the vest that was once more being offered to him. He stepped away from the wall where they had been standing, removed the heavy cloak from his shoulders and handed it to Rhody. The boy accepted it with a worried face. The two men stepped out into the middle of the yard. People around stopped what they were doing to watch. Walter easily adapted to the length and weight of the sword. He had been five when his training had begun: he had twenty-five years of experience with different weaponry. And, as the supervisor feinted toward him, he realized that he had a lot of anger simmering in him. The smile he gave his opponent made the man wonder, just for a breath, if Morlan had underestimated this man. It was not a fight to the death, not even one that should have drawn blood. But when Morlan realized that Walter and the supervisor were more testing than fighting, he yelled something that made the man go white. And the testing became more and more of a fight. Walter quickly realized that his strength was limited in spite of the fact that he was not laden down with armour: that he was vulnerable because he was not. Still, he had not become the King's general by connection alone. He allowed himself to pull back on each attacking blow, to let the supervisor feel that he had the advantage. Rhody was screaming something at the top of his lungs, but neither Walter nor the other man paid him the slightest bit of attention. And then Walter slipped in the mud. Whether or not the man might have wounded him was moot. As he raised his sword to bring down, Walter twisted his body under the man's sword arm, pulled himself up in one gesture. The man found himself held, Walter's sword ready to cut his throat. Apart from their panting breaths, the yard was still. "That was very well done, Lord Walter." The Lady's voice rang clear. Neither men moved. "Lord Walter." Walter took a deep breath, released it slowly. The sword made its way to his side; he moved back from the man. Two paces back, eyes never wavering. The man slowly turned to face him. He spoke, staring Walter straight in the eyes. "My commander wishes to know if you would care to join him for daily practice." Walter said nothing: he had no idea if the Lord would allow it. He still had no idea as to what the limits were on his life. "I shall tell him that you would. He is growing fat for the lack of a challenge. And you, I believe, Lord Walter, need to regain your strength." Walter watched the man's face, watching for any signs that this was a potential enemy. The man shifted his weight onto the hip sword-side, offered his free hand to Walter. Everyone waited while Walter made up his mind. Slowly his free arm came up. The man grasped it near the elbow, nodded when Walter did the same. "Lady. Does your commander have a name?" "Gosta." Walter reviewed the little he had learned of the language, found what he was looking for. Slowly, carefully, he wrapped his tongue around, "Thank you, Gosta." Gosta smiled, pulled him close and thumped him hard on the back. For a moment, Walter thought he'd lost the ability to breathe. Rhody came up to him, all proud smiles, handed him back his cloak. Gosta took the sword from him, gave it back to the young man, and pulled him toward the back building where the armoury was located. In spite of the lack of words, the two men spoke the same language when it came to weaponry. Walter was pleased to see a sword like the ones he used in the south hanging on a wall. Using sign language, facial and body gestures, the two compared swords, demonstrated differences, techniques. Finally they were interrupted by Rhody who managed to pull Walter away. It was only then that he noticed how dark it had become. Rhody made the gesture for eating and pulled him toward the side door that all used when entering the House. He showed him where to leave his outdoor boots, now caked with hard mud, where to find the softer indoor boots. Then, he took him by the hand led him through the Great Hall, up the stairs to the bedroom, in time to clean himself, put on a fresh tunic for the evening meal. They sat fewer to the meal: the official welcome was over and people had gone back to their duties. The Lord was nowhere to be seen. The Lady, accompanied by two of her women, by her commander, took her place at centre table. She placed the commander to her right, indicated that Walter was to sit at her left. The meal was plainer than the previous night's, but ample. Walter found he had an appetite and could satisfy it. The commander ate silently, only speaking when they had finished the meat course. The Lady, a long-haired cat of unblemished white on her knees, a bemused smile on her face, spent the next hour translating between two military men who discovered that they had a great deal in common. Sometimes she had trouble finding the words and the men would suddenly become aware of her. A new experience for the Lady: she was not used to being considered a mere facilitator of human communication. At one point the two discovered they had both spent some time in a western land, fighting in some foreign war. Walter grinned, pulled out some words he had learned in that language. Her commander laughed, pulled out a few he remembered. And suddenly the Lady discovered that she was no longer needed. She lifted the cat into her arms, stood, bid the two goodnight and left them to their discussion. Finally Walter noticed that they were alone in the Hall, that Rhody was sound asleep sitting on a stool, head resting against his chair. He and the commander shared a smile, said goodnight and Walter gently woke the boy, sent him off to bed with the commander's help. He went up to the Lord's room where he found a fire banked in the fireplace, stripped and went to bed. He was wakened in the middle of the night when the Lord slipped into bed next to him. The Lord's body was cold, as though he were just coming in from the night. Walter turned, wrapped his warm body around the Lord's. The Lord's thanks were broken by a yawn. He curled up a bit more into the heat of the man holding him and went to sleep. Walter pulled the blankets up closer to the man in his arms, found himself nestling his cheek against the back of the Lord's head. The light in the room woke Walter. He raised his head, saw that Rhody had opened the tapestries, the shutters. A quick glance around the room found the boy setting up the morning meal. He looked around, caught sight of Walter, went to speak. Walter placed a finger on his lips, silencing the lad. He pointed down to the Lord who was still sleeping. With a nod of his head, he made the boy understand that he was to leave. Rhody grinned, pointed to the door, made like a soldier guarding. Walter smiled, nodded his approval. Alone, he raised himself onto an elbow and examined the face of the man sleeping soundly next to him. This was the second time that the Lord had found his bed late. And from the lines on his face, it was obvious the man needed more sleep, more rest. The voyage home had been difficult for him, yet he seemed to have plunged immediately into work, not allowing himself time to recover. And, in spite of his stating that he, Walter, would continue servicing him, there had been none of that since the day of the meeting with the envoy. He understood, from the way that he was treated, that he was no longer the Lord's pet. But though the Lady had welcomed him, the commander now considered him an equal, the servants bowed to him, all that still did not indicate what the Lord expected of him. And the kiss in the bath house had awakened within him something that made him uncertain. Carefully, he pulled back the bedclothes and took his time examining the Lord's body. It was leaner than his: the shoulders not so wide, yet no less impressive. The Lord's ability with sword and other weaponry was well known: it was among the reasons his "alliances" were so sought. The chest had no hair; the abdomen, a light line that began at the navel, that grew darker, heavier then spread out into a dense bush at the groin. There were scars, here and there, that marred the light tones of the skin; some pale, some rough, bearing testimony to the life the Lord led. It was, thought Walter, a strangely appealing body. He looked up and found the Lord's green eyes watching him. After a moment, Walter asked, "May I touch you, Lord?" The Lord moved his head forward in a small gesture and waited to see what Walter would do. A finger touched his lips in much the same way his mouth had touched Walter's the previous day. It shaped his mouth as if drawing it onto his face. Then it traced down to the point of his jaw, drew his chin, only his chin, back and forth. The tip of the fingernail joined the two ends on the soft under chin. The sensation made the Lord's mouth open slightly. But the finger trailed slowly down his throat to the hollow at the collarbone. Like a pendulum gradually increasing its swing, the finger skimmed along the bone to the shoulder, always returning to the hollow by the throat. The Lord closed his eyes, the better to concentrate on the feel of that finger. He made a little sound, a small gasp, as the finger moved to examine his nipples. It moved in smaller and smaller concentric circles until it flicked at the now hardened nub. Moved on to treat its twin in the same fashion. The Lord was finding it hard to lie still. Impossible when the finger outlined his pecs, stroked the line of muscle that began under the joint of shoulder and torso, down along one line of ribs, across the ridge of the diaphragm to the other side and back up again. The Lord wanted more than a fingertip to touch him, not asking specifically but letting his arched back demand for him. Walter bit his lip, feeling his own body warm. He replaced his finger with his breath, a soft stream that retraced his path, eliciting some soft sounds from the Lord. Walter found that his cock was slowly responding to the sounds, the feel of the Lord's skin. He wondered what the Lord tasted like and dropped his mouth to a nipple where his tongue duplicated the action of his finger. The Lord twisted his hands in the bedclothes. He didn't want to interfere with Walter's explorations; sensed that if he did, he would lose something. He turned his body to facilitate Walter's mouthing of his other nipple, swallowed sounds when teeth bit gently down. Walter's hand pushed back the bedclothes to reveal the Lord's hardened cock. His mouth tasted the Lord's abdomen, his tongue played with his navel while his hand took its time stroking the soft inside skin of the Lord's thighs. The Lord's hips jerked, begging for attention. Walter moved down the bed, using his feet to push the bedclothes further out of the way. His mouth wetly explored the line joining thigh to torso, first on one side, then on the other. The Lord's rampant cock rubbed against his throat, but he ignored it, ignored the Lord's harsh guttural sounds. He moved his body so that it lay between the Lord's legs, used his hands to knead ass muscles that were tightening, releasing as the Lord's hips bucked, rubbing cock against his stubbled cheeks as it tried to find his mouth. Finally, just as the Lord was reaching to grab Walter's head, his mouth opened. Before, when he had been but a pet, Walter had had no control over how his mouth was used. Now he did. He took his time, drawing out the Lord's orgasm until he was certain everyone in the Lady's House would hear the man's scream of completion. Rhody, on the other side of the door, blushed at the sounds. Morlan, waiting to shave the Lord, spat. The women in the weaving room pretended to be shocked then giggled through the rest of the morning's work. Walter lay his head on the Lord's stomach, waited for him to catch his breath. His hand made its way slowly down to his groin, to the erection he was surprised to find. At no other time had his body reacted this way. He began stroking himself, only to have the Lord stop him. "No, come up, beside me." Then, eyes holding those of the man who had pleasured him, the Lord's hand replaced Walter's and with a rhythm that was new to Walter—the expression on his face was very revealing—brought him to orgasm. The two men lay side by side, staring at the canopy, not touching. After a few minutes, sounds from the other side of the door were harder to ignore. The Lord raised himself to leave the bed, paused, then bent and kissed Walter on the mouth. Walter's mouth hesitated before responding almost timidly. The noise from outside grew demanding. They could hear Morlan and Rhody arguing. The Lord went to the door, threw it open and all noise ceased. He said nothing, merely went to use the pot, then sat in his chair as if this were the normal routine. Morlan glared at Walter still in the bed as he went to shave the Lord. Rhody glared at Morlan as he went to serve Walter. The two men didn't speak, just ate, dressed. The Lord nodded to Walter on his way out. Gosta greeted Walter with a cheerful obscenity which told him that everyone in the Lady's House knew what had transpired in the Lord's bed that morning. But apart from that, no one made any reference to it. The Lord was present at the supper table that night. He and the Lady exchanged greetings, continued talking to only each other throughout the meal. Gosta, to the left of the Lady, kept a very neutral face on, except for the one time he glanced over at Walter, sitting to the right of the Lord, caught his eye, and winked. Whatever the subject, it did not concern the morning's activity. After the meal, the Lord bowed to the Lady, waited till she had left the room and spoke to the commander for a few minutes. This, Walter easily discerned, was about him. The commander bowed, in their common language told Walter he'd see him on the morrow, and left. Accompanied by Rhody, the two men made their way to the Lord's room. There, at his orders, Rhody lit several of the candles, poured two goblets of wine, bowed to both men and, with a smile, left them alone. The Lord found the chess game, set it up. He waited until Walter sat down. "Gosta tells me that you've had no trouble adapting to our lighter blades." Walter took a sip of wine. "The Lady suggested that we try each other." The Lord gave a bit of a laugh, "I doubt that she suggested." He moved one of his men on the board. "Rhody says that you have a talent for language. Not only the learning of it, but in the teaching. I told you, you have much to teach us." Walter moved one of his men. "Lord, may I ask? What exactly is your position here in this court?" The Lord sat back in his chair, stretched his legs out. "In your country, the king inherits his throne. It goes to his eldest son. No matter how competent or incompetent the man is. True?" Walter also sat back, nodded. It was hard to deny. "Here, the Lady chooses whom she wishes to serve her people. She chooses on ability, on whatever skills she thinks her people and Land need at a particular time. Fourteen years ago, she chose me." Walter looked a bit incredulous. "You were what, ten, twelve?" "Thirteen." "To lead her people?" "No. She leads the people. She is the people. No. She needed someone who would not fear going into foreign lands, who would return. She knew that I would do both, to the best of my ability, for her and for her people." Walter thought. "The alliances. You bring back gold for her." "For her people, for hard times, which, because of the land, the climate, occur far too frequently." "And how long will these alliances go on?" "Until I die, or until I wear out my usefulness." "And then?" "And then the Lady chooses another Lord." "You mean the Lady's successor." "No. I mean the Lady." The Lord waited to see how Walter would accept the information. "She has been the one to choose all of the previous Lords and she will be the one to choose all those who come after me." Walter raised an eyebrow. "Herself?" The Lord nodded. "You are saying that the Lady is what? Hundreds of years old?" "I have never had the courage to ask the Lady her age, but yes, our history written, as well as oral, goes back hundreds of years, and she is always a part of it." Walter said nothing. His church prayed to an invisible god: was that any easier to accept. "And when you are not away on alliances, Lord?" "Then I see to the welfare of the Lady's people. I settle disputes for her as she does not leave this valley and it can be difficult for the people to come here. I oversee the lands, carry out her decisions for the care of those lands. I defend the Land if necessary." "And that is what you have been doing since we arrived?" The Lord nodded. "The commander did the best he could while I was gone, with the counsel of the Lady, but his training is military. Sometimes a delicate touch is needed and those were put aside until my arrival. That is why I will be gone for some days." "Delicate?" Walter was surprised that slipped out. He waited to see the Lord's reaction. A shrug. The Lord reached out and moved another man on the board. Walter understood that discussion was over. Play was nearly over—Walter was winning—when the Lord, who was examining a knight in his hand said, "I wonder if the letters carved in the bottom have any meaning?" Walter was concentrating on the board. He answered without thinking. "HH: Henry of Halton." "How do you know that?" Walter looked up, no expression on his face. "Henry of Halton was my grandfather. This was mine before the battle." And went back to the board, to move a figure. "Check and mate, my Lord." The Lord looked at the board. "As you say: check and mate." He rose, stretched while Walter put the pieces back in the box. He blew out the candles, while Walter banked the fire. He undressed, waited until Walter too had undressed, had slipped into the bed before he joined him. There was enough light from the fire for him to see that Walter lay on his back, eyes staring at the canopy. The Lord lay on his side, head propped up on hand, waiting for Walter to turn to him. The morning had set them on a new path, one where there was mutual pleasure. He wondered whether Walter sensed this change or was he just fulfilling his side of their pact? His free hand went to out to stroke the chest rising and falling with controlled breaths. At his touch, Walter's eyes turned to his. The Lord could see the wariness in them. Walter gathered himself, began to turn. "No." The Lord gave him a little push back. "I promised you pleasure. Lie still." Walter settled back, eyes staring at nothing, and waited. The Lord's hand slowly stroked the skin on his chest with a light touch, waiting for a sign that Walter was not bracing himself for pain. He knew he had full cause to do so; that his time with the Lord had been more pain than pleasure. He moved his hand to cover the area between chest and groin, skimming over the tight abdomen, back to the chest. Finally he got the signal he had been waiting for: a small sigh that Walter could not prevent from leaving his lips. The hand moved to teasing his nipples with the top of a finger, the gentle scrape of a nail, until first one then the other nub hardened. The Lord smiled: yet another signal. He moved to replaced his hand with his mouth, his tongue and was rewarded with a small gasp, an increase of breathing, a movement that slipped Walter's control. While the Lord's mouth was busy, his hand now moved to stroking Walter's side, his ribs, his flank. The thumb caressed the hollow under his arm, his mouth nipped the sensitive flesh, his tongue soothed. Walter felt as if under assault. The Lord's mouth followed his hand and his hand aroused sensations that his body had not always felt. He was a warrior, a soldier. Had been for most of his life. His experiences with sex were mainly with prostitutes, with women who followed the troops. Under David, he may have amassed lands for himself, but he had rarely had the time to see to them properly, to settle on them. He had little experience with women of his class. He had thought that after this last campaign, David would let him find a wife, beget an heir for his land. He was long past the age, but David always seemed to have another war going and had needed him. By the time the Lord's mouth found his erection, he was yet again surprised by the sensations that took over his mind. His hips bucked as he tried to find a way of putting an end to that exquisite pain. But the Lord pulled away from him. He made a sound of protest, all he felt he could under the circumstances. The Lord grinned: reached for the vial of grease he had slipped under the pillows that evening on changing his clothes. He moved between Walter's legs. With quick proficiency, he greased the familiar path. Walter's eyes opened and the Lord saw, instead of pleasure, resignation. Walter braced himself for the pain of their previous matings. He began turning over, to offer his ass to the Lord. The Lord stopped him. "No. I want to see you. Look at me, Walter. Keep your eyes open." He took Walter's legs, placed them over his shoulders. He took his time, caressing the thick thighs, skimming the abdomen, stroking the cock back up to full erection. Before he entered, he took the time to finger him open enough so that when he did push his own erect cock into Walter's asshole, Walter was ready to accept it. The Lord took his time, slowly establishing the rhythm that pleased the man, seeing to it that the first pain was replaced by the pleasure of having that particular spot within him rubbed. The Lord watched as the surprise of it all took Walter's breath away, made him overcome the wariness of his experience at the Lord's hands. His orgasm stunned him. The Lord grinned, allowed himself to come, pleased that Walter now knew what he had felt in the morning. The Lord lay on Walter's chest, still between his legs. Their breathing returned to normal. Their hearts stopped pounding. The Lord looked up, smiled. He bent over, and for the first time that night, kissed Walter. Walter returned the kiss. His hand came up, rested on the Lord's cheek. He said nothing, mainly because he had no idea what to say. The Lord turned just enough to be able to kiss the palm. He got out of bed, went to wet a rag, came back and wiped semen, grease off Walter. He tossed it onto the table, pulled the bedclothes over them. He settled, on his side, looking at the slightly befuddled look on his bed partner's face, wanting to say something, knowing that silence right now was the better choice. He slipped into sleep. Walter spent a long time looking at the canopy, trying very hard not to think. Two days after the Lord's departure, Walter had his first experience with the type of winter storm that could drive men crazy. It was almost impossible, even using the guide-roped routes, to go from house to out- buildings. People stayed where they were and hoped the snow and wind would stop before they starved or froze to death. In the Lady's House, Rhody continued Walter's language lessons. In turn, he started working the boy through his training paces. Rhody was still of the age when a lad trained with a wooden blade. Walter had found some throwing knives, daggers in the armoury, decided that the boy was old enough to learn how to use those as well. He used a corner of the Great Hall for his lessons, found that, within a couple of sessions, other House boys came to watch; some even to participate. The Lady had her chair drawn up so that she could watch while at work on a piece of embroidery. After the second accident, she had one of her women bring a small basket of clean rags, a jar of salve, eventually a needle and thread. She was also the House physician. When a fight broke out between two of the older boys, Walter took care of the situation by grabbing both by the scruffs of their tunics, literally pulling them apart. So began the fighting lessons. Unarmed combat had its place, and Walter had a wealth of tavern experience from his wandering youth. In all of that, the Lady noticed that Walter always gave Rhody special attention. And she was certain that the lessons continued privately whenever the boy attended Walter in his room. Gosta made it into the House between the storm's attacks, to report on the conditions in the out-buildings. He pulled up a stool and sat by the Lady, grunting his approval as he watched Walter teach the boys a rather underhanded way of disarming an opponent. The storm lasted a week. When it was over, Walter was amazed by the mountains of hard-packed snow that had appeared out of nowhere. The boys returned his lessons with some of their own. The sun was out shining as Walter followed the boys up a slope, was made to sit on a sled and, with Rhody along, sped down the snow hill, across the yard and ended up in another of the snow hills. The speed of the descent took his breath away. Some of the older boys introduced him to another way of getting along on the snow: they strapped waxed boards to his boots and taught him to ski. The daily lessons with knife and dagger continued and Gosta asked him to take on the training of two of his better students. The Lady wanted them trained not only in their weaponry but also in that of the south. In the six weeks that the Lord was gone, Walter made a place for himself in the Lady's House, picked up enough of the language to handle disputes among his students, to hold rather basic discussions of a non-military nature with the Lady after supper. To all, except Gosta, he was Lord Walter. A Different Rule He was by himself in the bedchamber, reading the history of his land by the light of several candles, the night the Lord returned. Walter looked up as the door opened and a man dressed in furs staggered into the room, closed the door and slowly slipped to the floor. Walter put the history down and rushed to see what was wrong with the man. It was only when he pulled the hat off that he recognized the Lord. He was horrified. Under the beard, the man's face was drawn, grey. Was he wounded? Walter quickly stripped the furs and boots off the man, to discover no wound, no injury of any kind. What he did discover enraged him: the man was sinew and bones. His face showed sunken eyes resting in purpled sockets, only the beard on his face filled the obvious signs of deprivation, exhaustion. He left the Lord on the floor, filled a heating pan with coals from the fire, heated up the bed. He stripped the Lord's clothes off, had no trouble lifting the man into bed. He pulled the bedclothes over him, the fur cover. He went into the storage room next to the chamber and found another of the fur throws and placed it on the bed. By this time, Rhody had shown up at the door, sleepily rubbing his eyes. "Get some broth. Something easy to swallow and make sure it's hot," snapped Walter. Rhody had never seen Walter angry. It woke him completely and he rushed to do as Lord Walter ordered. He was back in five minutes. He handed Walter the deep bowl of broth, watched as he raised the Lord's head and tried to get him to drink. The Lord coughed, some of the broth ran down his chin. Rhody got a cloth and handed it to Walter. Walter raised the man up higher, got him to swallow a few mouthfuls and then let him down. He handed the bowl to Rhody who placed it by the fire where it would stay warm. When Walter didn't give him any other command, he picked up the Lord's clothes, gathered the furs from the floor and took them out. He carefully shut the door behind him. For the rest of the night, Walter sat by the Lord's side, managed to get him to swallow more of the broth every now and then. He was livid. It was obvious the man had had little food since he'd gone on the Lady's bidding. Before that, he had had no rest, certainly little or none on the sea voyage. And then there had been a five month campaign. So the Lady was immortal, was she? Probably just seemed to be if she treated her Lords in this fashion. He wondered what was the average life-span of one of the Lady's Lords? He was dozing in his chair when Morlan entered the next morning, to get his Lord up, to shave him. With the Lord gone, Morlan had disappeared. Now he was bending over the bed, roughly shaking the Lord, trying to wake him. Morlan was stunned to find himself lifted off his feet, carried over to the door and pitched out, physically. He landed hard on the floor. He was gathering breath to scream at whomever had the audacity to touch him when he caught sight of Walter's face. If Rhody had been taken aback by his anger, Morlan was rendered speechless by the rage directed at him. That and the knife pointing at his throat. "I will kill you if you so much as step foot into this room. Do you understand, Morlan?" He didn't wait for Morlan's answer. Walter turned to find Rhody. "Fetch some more of the broth. And, from now on, knock softly and wait to be called before you come in." Rhody nodded, sped off to follow orders. Walter looked at all those who had come out to see what the commotion was. His words may not have been exactly correct, but the voice that said them had directed armies for a King. "No one is to enter the Lord's chamber without knocking. And if there is no bid to enter, you will not enter. Is that understood? By all?" It was. Morlan waited until the door closed behind Walter to bristle. How dare the man tell him, the Lord's manservant, that he could not enter the Lord's room? Who the hell did he think he was? He was the Lord's pet, his asshole. He had no right to lay hands on the Lord's man! Stopping him from doing his duty. Morlan worked himself up into a righteous fever. He straightened his clothes, went down to report to the Lady that her request for the Lord to report to her could not be carried out due to the barbarian animal that had had the audacity to lay hands on him. The Lady knew the condition of the men who had returned with the Lord. She allowed that they were tired and could do with some sleep. She sympathized with Morlan, agreeing with him that Lord Walter needed to have a few things explained to him. That she would see to it that he apologized for throwing Morlan out of the Lord's chamber when he was only carrying out his duties. She sent Morlan off on an errand for her and decided that the Lord's report could wait a few hours more. Rhody