Date: Tue, 2 Jan 2001 02:15:56 EST
From: Tommyhawk1@aol.com
Subject: Knight of Carlovain, Conclusion
KNIGHT OF CARLOVAIN, CONCLUSION
By "Tommyhawk1@AOL.COM
When Valbotg left on his mission of mercy on Andrew's behalf, Andrew
felt wonderfully confident. Such a simple yet effective thing, to send
Valbotg out to inquire about his brother at the inn! When told that
Ananias had not yet arrived, he would leave a message with the innkeeper
and probably even inquire among the patrons there, spreading his news along
the way. Inns were hotbeds of gossip and the trading of news and
information, and Valbotg would go there when it would be crowded with the
evening's revelers; soon the word that he was in the Archbishop's prison
would be circulating and would necessarily reach the ears of either Renaud
when he went to the inn, or Charles when he went to give news to
Andrew...and even the King.
Yes, it would get word to his friends what had befallen him. All he
had to do now was wait. He slept despite the foulness of his quarters with
peace in his heart.
Valbotg returned the next morning with his food and stood while Andrew
ate heartily. Done, Andrew handed him the empty plate--he'd felt hungry
and eaten every morsel--and looked up, saw the question in Valbotg's eyes,
and smiled, stood and took Valbotg to his arms once more.
"I am glad to have a friend like you, if I must be here." he said to
Valbotg's ears, caressing that cold mesh-metal-clad body.
"Glad am I to be your friend." Valbotg said.
"Had my brother arrived at the inn?" Andrew said, trying to keep it
casual. If word to his brother was all he had sought, he would be eager
for the answer, but not shakingly nervous.
"No, not yet." Valbotg informed him. "I spoke to everyone I could,
including a monk who said that he would come to minister to you if he could
until your brother arrived."
Andrew almost collapsed in relief. Renaud; it had to be Renaud. "Was
it Brother Eserel?"
"Ya, that was he." Valbotg said. "A very kindly man who was most
upset to hear you were here."
"He would be, he...is a worthy man of the cloth." Andrew said.
Valbotg's hands reached for Andrew's buttocks and pressed him tightly
against Valbotg's own turgid crotch, a lump of stiffened flesh, and Andrew
reached for those hairy lips and kissed Valbotg ardently, feeling his cock
fill and press in its turn against Valbotg's.
"I trust my guard is seeing to your comfort as he was ordered." the
Archbishop's wry voice interposed.
Valbotg released him hastily and turned, bowed to his liege lord.
"Most Reverend Lord, I..."
"Cease your attempts to explain yourself, for your actions are most
clear of themselves." the Archbishop said. "You need not stay here, my own
guards will suffice for the remainder of my visit here."
Valbotg left the room and the Archbishop turned his attentions to
Andrew. "I see that your captivity is not as large a burden on you as it
is on some. I came to bring you news you may not have heard in your
headlong ride across Carlovain to come here." he said. "It arrived by boat
yesterday from Heslov."
"What is that?" Andrew frowned. Why would the Archbishop want to
provide him with any news of any kind?
"Your father passed away two days ago." The Archbishop essayed a
small smile. "A shame that you will not be able to attend your father's
funeral, is it not? They will seal his body into a casket to wait for you.
I wonder how long it will be before your mother goes on without you?"
Andrew heard all of his words, but they receded into the distance.
His father, gone. He'd known his father was dying...but still. He sat
down on his bunk and gave himself to his grief.
"Yes, I thought that would dim your ardor for my guards." the
Archbishop said. "They speak of how quickly you give yourself to every man
who looks your way, though I confess I had thought that was idle gossip
until I saw it with my own eyes. Surely the King could obtain a more
steadfast lover for his dalliances, I would think."
"Valbotg has been kind to me." Andrew flared. He wanted to hurt this
arrogant man, with words since he had no sword. The need overcame even his
grief at this moment...or was its substitute. "One may find a good man in
a mercenary's troop....just as one may find a scoundrel in the garb of an
Archbishop!"
That hit the Archbishop, all right, his face deepened as he scowled.
"Filthy Neresterii scum!" he snarled at Andrew. "Sodomites and catamites,
every one of you! We French did you a favor, coming to this land!"
"Do you mock your ancestors so easily?" Andrew returned. "I know your
lineage as well as you. The first Montaigne Duke of Heslov took a
Neresterii bride, as did his son. So did most of the French lords created
by Phillippe I. I have spoken with Frenchmen, they do not consider you to
be French any more than they consider me to be English, though I have more
English blood in me than you have French!"
It felt good, hurting the Archbishop with his words, but now the price
came, for Andrew was unarmed and his feet shackled on a short chain, the
Archbishop stepped up and backhanded him across the face, hard! The heavy
ring of office he wore cut Andrew's cheek sharply though the blow itself
was scarcely harder than a slap, he turned and bent with the blow, and felt
wetness on his cheek, but no more.
"I will not keep you the more." the Archbishop said, the words tight
as a rope. "Know that you live only because I may have need of you. The
moment that need is gone...so are you!"
And the Archbishop left.
Andrew sat back down on his bed. His father...dead. And him not even
there to hold his mother and comfort his wife who had been so favored of
his father, and his son, bewildered at the mourning going on around him....
Curse the Archbishop! He would stab that fiend right through the center of
the cross he dared wear embroidered upon his chest!
Valbotg re-entered the cell and, seeing Andrew in sorrow, simply sat
beside him and held him while Andrew cried, then left him alone. And so in
slow mourning, Andrew passed the day.
There followed some days in the cell like this, Andrew wondering first
what had gone wrong with his plan. Surely either Renaud or Charles would
have learned of his imprisonment now. Surely they would come rescue him at
any moment! Surely....
He questioned Valbotg to the point where the pretense of the brother
wore impossibly thin. Valbotg was kind about it but Andrew could tell that
he had realized Andrew's lie and use of him, and while he would not tell
the Archbishop, neither would he help Andrew the more. When Andrew spurned
Valbotg's advances as a result, the guard was changed to another, and he
didn't even see Valbotg any more.
Nearly a week had gone by since his imprisonment, and Andrew had
nearly given up all hope, believing now that his message had gone to
naught, when the Archbishop again visited his cell. This time, fury was
etched upon the cruel man's features.
"You!" He shook in fury. Then he backhanded Andrew, hard! This time
it was no mere petulance on the Archbishop's part, he was angry. Andrew
crouched back, hampered beyond any effective resistance by the shackles on
his feet, he balled his fists and determined not to bear another like that.
The Archbishop shivered in his rage, then he said, "The King went out
hunting with the Count and his men this morning, traveling north of the
city." Andrew looked his query at this minor information. "He has not
returned. The Count's men were diverted by the hunt, and when they looked
about themselves once again, the King and his Guards were gone."
Andrew felt a sigh of relief. The warning had gotten through, the
King was safe! He rose up and moved toward the Archbishop. "So your plans
for Carlovain come to nothing." he said. "With the King warned and out of
your reach, you can only cause another civil war if you act now. If you
will end this and beg the King's pardon, I am certain he will not be overly
harsh in his punishment."
He had been careless in moving forward, another hand was coming at him
and he blocked it only partially. Too long in shackles in the cell, unable
to move effectively, it had left him feeling as weak and feeble as if he
had been ill. He reeled from the impact, stumbled back onto the cot.
"You were the one who brought him the message from Merlemagnists!" the
Archbishop accused him. "You warned the King!"
"How could I have?" Andrew said disingenuously. "I have been here all
the time. I have not been allowed near the King."
"You carried the message, then gave it to that blond-haired, beastly
son of the Marquis of Lesleran to give the King." the Archbishop fumed.
"You let yourself be captured in order to let him escape with the papers."
How did the Archbishop know all this? Perhaps the Royal Chamberlain
had overheard and warned him. No real matter, he knew. "Very well."
Andrew said. "I did indeed carry the papers across Carlovain, but they
were your own words. You condemned yourself."
"But with the King in flight, probably north into the Neresterii
lands, I have no further need of you." the Archbishop said. "Enjoy your
night." he turned. "On the morning, you shall die."
Andrew was left alone, and as if in answer to his wondering as to the
hour, the light dimmed. Dusk had come, and with it, the end of day.
Surely the King, now warned, would send him aid. Perhaps Renaud would
insist on leading an expedition to help him. Maybe Charles would even join
in.
Surely.
Perhaps.
Maybe.
The long, long night turned slowly into dawn. Dawn was the hour for
executions in Carlovain, the time when life was said to be weakest, and
death rose and walked about as the forces of nature were briefly caught
between light and darkness, with darkness holding more powerful sway. It
harked back to pagan rituals of the dawn, but the custom remained, as the
sun rose, they came for Andrew.
Into the cold morning, his hands bound behind his back with rope, the
shackles replaced with others that hobbled his walk but let him shuffle
forward in halting steps, Andrew was taken out of the cell. Through the
front door he had seen only barely before, he saw that the courtyard was
lined with the Archbishop's Guards. Beyond this line were the townspeople
of Fediresta, come to see a lord die. Andrew looked about...surely help
would come!...but there was none to be seen. He rose up the steps with
difficulty, a guard helping him raise his feet a sufficient height to go up
the steps. And there on top was a block, and a burly man with an axe,
hooded with black. And Count Ernaud was there, in obvious alliance with
the Archbishop.
His hour had come, Andrew realized. He must die now.
He felt despair rise up...and with it, resignation. Well, if nothing
was left to choose but the manner of death, he would take it well. He
raised his head up high, proud, walked with steps as dignified as he could
to the block.
There is a ritual to an execution, the blessing said for the man to
die, the pronouncement by the judge--here the Archbishop--and then the
condemned is allowed a chance to say a few words. Then they lay his head
down on the block and it is chopped off.
Too quickly for Andrew, the first parts were over. "Say your piece."
grumbled the Archbishop as he gave way to Andrew.
Andrew looked out over the crowd. What was there to say? No friend
could hear him. Brave words sounded hollow to his inner ear.
He took in a deep breath. "Long live the King!" he called out at the
top of his voice. "Long live the King!"
It was a poor set of last words, but it was all his heart held. He
lowered his head and turned to the block. Rough hands forced him into
place. Pressing his head down upon the block, turned to one side so that
his neck would be more exposed. As ritual demanded, he was looking upon
the Archbishop.
To his surprise, the Archbishop knelt down with him. "I swore I would
see you die." he snarled into Andrew's face. "The last thing you see is
going to be my face, looking right at you. The face of a Montaigne, and
justice for my family, come at last."
He looked up, nodded to the executioner, and then back at Andrew.
His last look, the Archbishop's triumphantly angry face. Yet Andrew
could not bring himself to close his eyes! It would be his very last look,
his last vision of the world. Let not it end in darkness!
Cruelly livid eyes, a smirk on the face, anger and hatred towards
Andrew. And then...the executioner's axe fell, but on the Archbishop!
The Archbishop saw the axe leveled towards his own neck, slicing
horizontally towards him rather than straight down at Andrew, and he made
the first start of a move away, and the axe found his neck. Razor sharp,
it cut cleanly through and the headless body of the Archbishop fell out of
Andrew's narrow view.
He felt a tug at the ropes binding his arms, a knife was cutting him
free! The axe flew again in the general astonished silence at what had
occurred, this time severing the shackles of his feet.
Andrew needed no more. Rescue had come! He clambered to his feet,
the heavy iron circles at his ankles impeding him, but he was ready to run
all day with them on his feet if he had to.
He looked up into an incipient chaos. The Guards were only now
reacting to the death of their lord. But the crowd around them...the
weather of early morning was chill in this seaside town. Most of the
viewers wore cloaks, and now those cloaks were flung aside and a field of
swords rose up around them.
There were scattered fights here and there as some Guards, more
foolish or more frightened or more ready to shed blood in battle, fought,
but to all intents and purposes, the battle was over before it began.
Andrew was bewildered, standing on the block which was to have been
his doom, and instead it was the crowd of the Archbishop's soldiers about
him who were suddenly the captives.
"We meet again." Count Ernaud said to Andrew.
Andrew looked upon the man, whom he remembered only as a cruel,
arrogant young man. "I owe you my life." he said. "I am grateful."
"I did it not for you." the Count growled. "Not even for my brother
who came to me with news of your capture and pleaded with me for your
release."
"Then why?" Andrew said. "You have no reason to help me."
"I didn't do it to help you, I did it to help myself!" the Count said.
"I have the domain of Fediresta, was I to throw that away to get vengeance
upon the very King who put me here? Would you have done so, you who are
now Duke of Heslov?"
"Of course not." Andrew said. "But I am grateful just the same."
"And I'm grateful to you, for bringing those papers. All we had to go
on was rumor and suspicion, until those papers were laid into the King's
hands. I couldn't accuse my father and older brother of treason without
that, for all their schemes against me. But now lay your gratitude before
the one who has earned it; I would have let your head go flying!"
Andrew turned to follow the Count's pointing hand and there... "Your
Majesty!" he said and held the cloaked figure tightly.
"Steady, my beloved friend, steady!" the King chided him.
Andrew held him tightly, just the same. "I come to save you, and
instead you save me, Sire." he breathed.
"We saved each other, for now with the papers you brought, we have the
tools to take the last of the traitors from among us." the King said. "I
can finish the job started five years ago with you at Winseran Point."
Guards cleared the way for the King and Andrew to the coach waiting
for them. Once they were seated within its interior, Andrew said. "Sire,
I thought I was going to die." He said this, preparatory to once again
thank the King for his salvation.
"Yes." the King said, "And I have only one thing to say on that, my
dearest friend.."
"What is it, Sire?"
"Couldn't you have come up with a better set of last words than that?"
Andrew laughed and embraced his lord and his lover.
Back in the King's chamber, this time as an honored guest, Andrew was
given the chance to cleanse his body which had been sorely fouled over the
last week in captivity. Once done with his bath and with a hot meal inside
of him, he was suddenly, sorely tired. The King was busy with his
ministers as they planned how to deal with the remnants of the rebellion,
now without its leader, so Andrew said simply to the servant set to care
for him. "Take me to a bed and let me sleep through the day if I can. I
don't wish to be wakened unless the King calls for me."
He was taken to the royal chamber, red satin trimmed with ermine, and
ensconced within a comfort his body had come to expect and had done without
for the past weeks, he fell soundly asleep.
When he awoke, it was well into the afternoon, but it wasn't the sun
which had roused him. The King had joined him in the bed, and the bare
flesh of his sovereign was pressing against him.
Andrew sighed happily. "We are together once more." he breathed.
"Always." the King promised him. "For so long as I have breath within
me."
"I have missed you." Andrew said as his hands traveled over the
gentle, regal flesh. The King's body felt cool--that was the oncoming
winter--the skin was taut upon his body, the muscles making discrete bumps
upon their allotted portions, rather than flowing smoothly across his body.
It felt less like stroking a person and more like stroking a sculpture made
of marble, save that this skin was not cold, uncaring marble, but more like
sun-warmed sand you ran your hand across in languid comfort as the sun
bronzed your body. Like a last taste of summer.
Andrew reached his lips for his King's and was surprised to feel his
body still was reluctant to move about. It had been held still too long,
his body needed more rest, and then time to slowly stretch back out the
muscles truncated by the enforced rest of the shackles.
"Sire, I fear that I shall not be a proper lover for you this day."
Andrew said sorrowfully. "My body has deteriorated in it captivity, and is
averse to move for me once again. I fear I was used more grievously than I
had thought, bound as I was."
The King only smiled kindly. "Then we shall not put any undue strain
upon you until you have recovered." he said. "Lie upon the bed and permit
me to labor for your pleasure."
Andrew obeyed and the King's lips were avid upon his lips, then across
his cheek, and down his breast. Andrew felt those lips clutch at one of
his nipples and nurse most ardently at it, the tongue adding its
counterpoint to the caress, so much that he wished his body would give
forth milk and so nourish the hungry mouth fastened upon him. And the
King's head moved on, nestling between his breasts, kissing the hollow
concave there, Andrew's heart pounding in his chest in an attempt to jump
out and kiss back those gentle guests of his body.
And the King moved on, and now Andrew's ribs were being licked by the
King's tongue, long strokes along the bones there, invisible and unknown to
Andrew until this moment, when the King's kisses brought them to life by
his touching of them.
And the King moved on and now Andrew's navel was being probed by that
mischievous tongue, which dug in so deeply that Andrew felt his navel
indent the more from the pressure, the tongue like a warm jewel placed
there to be snuggled into the tight oval of flesh and cling there ever
afterwards.
And the King moved on, and now that tongue was exploring the dense
brush of his pubic hair, sliding among the slender reeds of the tangled
hairs there, trodding over them when it had to, but mostly keeping its tip
onto his flesh beneath it, and again Andrew's body, a neglected part
brought to life, keened its pleasure.
And the King moved on and now his mouth climbed the throne of Andrew's
manhood with all dignity, and sat upon its crest, and like the royal robes
of a high court that rippled down the steps around the throne, the King's
lips rippled down the sides of Andrew's shaft, and covered him in their
velvety warmth.
Andrew could lay still no longer, though his body still resented his
demands upon it, he had the King's body angled out on the bed near him,
that royal pud was there for the taking, and he grasped it in his hand,
holding the fleshy sceptre which adorned itself with a clear pearl of musky
dew.
"Ah, ah, my loyal lord." the King said. "You trespass upon my domain
without my permission."
"Punish me, then." Andrew sighed. "For I shall not depart now that I
am here." And he milked the heavy pud and the pearly drop exuded itself
into a teardrop that reached down from the weeping eyelet to touch and
break itself upon the bedding like a bubble that touches the grass blades.
Andrew pulled on this hungrily curving shaft, his lips ached to wrap around
it, and he moved though his body yelled out with every move, and the King
did not resist him, but instead straightened his legs, and soon Andrew's
mouth captured and covered the King's prick, and it became a fire-heated
poker of male strength in his mouth.
Andrew tried to work that familiar, beloved prong with his usual
vigor, but his body refused and overcame his desire at last, after only a
few minutes of earnest movements accompanied by grateful moans from his
sovereign, he was forced to retreat from the field.
"Ah, forgive me, Sire, I cannot continue." Andrew said.
"I myself tire at this position." the King agreed. "I am some years
your elder, you must remember, and my bones this time of year tell me of my
oncoming gray hairs."
"You have no gray hairs." Andrew protested.
"They are there." the King said as he hitched himself up to sit beside
Andrew. "Unseen, but only waiting their chance to reveal themselves."
Andrew raised himself up to rest his back upon the bed's backboard.
"I know something of what you mean." he said. "My body's pains must be
what old age shall one day feel like, a general ache that goes on and on."
"And I expect that this is the part that aches you the most." the King
said, grasping Andrew's prick and pumping it firmly.
"Ah, ah, yes, my Lord, that part grieves me greatly!" Andrew moaned,
and his hand found new strength and reached for the King's own.
They kissed as their hands pleasured each other in the room which
seemed to grow colder by the moment, and in fact was, for a cold wind had
arisen from off the seas and was blowing about the small seaside town, the
cold air trapped by the hills and turned back upon itself, manufacturing a
strong fog outside and filling the inside with a damp coldness. Yet in
this coldness, the two bodies in the bed had found a way to warm themselves
just the same.
Andrew felt the King's cock grow hotter in his hand, and his own dick
seemed to throb with its urgency. He grunted his pleasure into the King's
lips and the King took this as license to pound his cock the harder, and
did, and Andrew's pud swelled hotter and harder and the inside of this
swelling was concentrated pleasure waiting to break free.
The King was panting heavily, some of the breaths catching in his
throat, only to burst out louder a split-second later, uh-huh, uh-huh,
uh-huh-huh-uh!
"Ah, my time is upon me." Andrew groaned as the pleasure in his cock
seemed to grow together into a palpable object inside his cockshaft. "I
cannot tarry the longer."
"Tarry not, my beloved friend, but bestow your seed upon me and I
shall repay you in kind." the King gasped out.
Andrew gave himself entirely to his pleasure, his lips resting upon
the King's cheek, and he moaned his joy against that taut, thin layer of
skin, and then his climax rose within him and he groaned loudly and his
cock sprayed out at the King.
And the King gasped at the hot spew hitting him and then his own prick
jetted out and splattered Andrew in its turn, just as the King had
promised. Andrew felt the power of his ejaculation as it thrust itself out
of his cock to splash against the King and at the same time he felt the
widely scattered splats of the King's jism as it rained down upon him.
Some time later, their passions spent, their come congealing and
cooling upon them, in the cold wetness of the room into which the mist had
intruded as a ghostly but present visitor, Andrew kissed his sovereign
lover once again, and realized that his body would not recover properly
from the exhaustion of passion. "I must rest more now, Sire." he
apologized. "My body is spent entire."
"And I have been glad to make it so, for you need rest to recover from
your imprisonment." the King agreed. "I fear that for myself, I must go
out and attend to the business and the promises I have made these last few
days."
"Yes, promises." Andrew said sleepily. "I have a few of those myself.
Like a cathedral shaped like a cockleshell."
"A cockleshell?" the King was surprised. "Do you jest?"
Andrew smiled. "I fear not, but I did promise it to the
Merlemagnists, and so I shall build it for them."
"At Heslov?"
"Yes, Sire."
"Well." the King was at a loss. "If you must, you must, though that
shall be something to see."
"Brother Eserel has promised to help me make it beautiful." Andrew
said, smiling. "I shall hold him to that promise myself. And who knows,
one day it may be as beautiful as he has promised." * THE END OF "KNIGHT
OF CARLOVAIN" * [Author's Postscript: Keep an eye on that
cockleshell-shaped cathedral, you'll be seeing it again in future episodes
of this series. I plan to skip about a hundred years for the next series,
so let me tell you briefly about the rest of Andrew's life. He never again
had such an adventure, though there was much as the second Moresta Duke of
Heslov (for Andrew was of the Neresterii Clan Moresta, you may remember)
that he had to do. He kept his promise to the Merlemagnists and built the
Cathedral of Christ's Crown at Heslov, an built it just as round as the
plans called for. Flying buttresses for the outer walls softened the
roundness, though, and when it was done, it looked less like a cockleshell
and more like a spider, which was the word the vulgar gave it during its
construction. But when faced with brown stone that shone warmly in the
sun, its simple design was appreciated. It never did supplant the "pencil"
cathedral in central Heslov, but there were many who preferred to take
their devotions within the "Cockleshell's" more kindly interior. Two years
after this, in 1477, Charles the Bold, Grand Duke of Burgundy, was killed
in battle. Though his daughter married the King of Austria, it was France
who swallowed up most of the duchy and ended its long period of
independence. France obtained the provinces of Alsace and Lorraine which
the Germans felt entitled to and they've been disputing ownership of those
lands ever since. We all know what happened some years later, in 1492.
The impact was slow in Europe, for many believed as Columbus that he had
simply found a new way to the Indies. But in time, everyone realized that
there was a new continent out there in the Atlantic Ocean, land free for
the taking after you pushed aside a few inconsequential aboriginal
inhabitants. And as always, there were many who needed land. As for
Andrew, he lived a long life, had three sons, who each had several children
of their own. Carlovain was slower than most lands to seek its fortune in
the New World. But there did come the day when the expedition was formed
for the New World from Carlovain, and when it did, it carried one of the
great-grandchildren of Andrew in its complement who...ah, but that's
another story!] * [A FURTHER P.S. TO NIFTY ARCHIVES READERS. I don't plan
to post future episodes of this series at Nifty (because I really do plan a
large number of sequels about Carlovain, far more than I care to burden
Nifty with), but you can find/keep up with the series by visiting
"Tommyhawk's Fantasy World." There's a link to it in the Links section of
Nifty Archives.] KNIGHT OF CARLOVAIN, CONCLUSION
By "Tommyhawk1@AOL.COM
When Valbotg left on his mission of mercy on Andrew's behalf, Andrew
felt wonderfully confident. Such a simple yet effective thing, to send
Valbotg out to inquire about his brother at the inn! When told that
Ananias had not yet arrived, he would leave a message with the innkeeper
and probably even inquire among the patrons there, spreading his news along
the way. Inns were hotbeds of gossip and the trading of news and
information, and Valbotg would go there when it would be crowded with the
evening's revelers; soon the word that he was in the Archbishop's prison
would be circulating and would necessarily reach the ears of either Renaud
when he went to the inn, or Charles when he went to give news to
Andrew...and even the King.
Yes, it would get word to his friends what had befallen him. All he
had to do now was wait. He slept despite the foulness of his quarters with
peace in his heart.
Valbotg returned the next morning with his food and stood while Andrew
ate heartily. Done, Andrew handed him the empty plate--he'd felt hungry
and eaten every morsel--and looked up, saw the question in Valbotg's eyes,
and smiled, stood and took Valbotg to his arms once more.
"I am glad to have a friend like you, if I must be here." he said to
Valbotg's ears, caressing that cold mesh-metal-clad body.
"Glad am I to be your friend." Valbotg said.
"Had my brother arrived at the inn?" Andrew said, trying to keep it
casual. If word to his brother was all he had sought, he would be eager
for the answer, but not shakingly nervous.
"No, not yet." Valbotg informed him. "I spoke to everyone I could,
including a monk who said that he would come to minister to you if he could
until your brother arrived."
Andrew almost collapsed in relief. Renaud; it had to be Renaud. "Was
it Brother Eserel?"
"Ya, that was he." Valbotg said. "A very kindly man who was most
upset to hear you were here."
"He would be, he...is a worthy man of the cloth." Andrew said.
Valbotg's hands reached for Andrew's buttocks and pressed him tightly
against Valbotg's own turgid crotch, a lump of stiffened flesh, and Andrew
reached for those hairy lips and kissed Valbotg ardently, feeling his cock
fill and press in its turn against Valbotg's.
"I trust my guard is seeing to your comfort as he was ordered." the
Archbishop's wry voice interposed.
Valbotg released him hastily and turned, bowed to his liege lord.
"Most Reverend Lord, I..."
"Cease your attempts to explain yourself, for your actions are most
clear of themselves." the Archbishop said. "You need not stay here, my own
guards will suffice for the remainder of my visit here."
Valbotg left the room and the Archbishop turned his attentions to
Andrew. "I see that your captivity is not as large a burden on you as it
is on some. I came to bring you news you may not have heard in your
headlong ride across Carlovain to come here." he said. "It arrived by boat
yesterday from Heslov."
"What is that?" Andrew frowned. Why would the Archbishop want to
provide him with any news of any kind?
"Your father passed away two days ago." The Archbishop essayed a
small smile. "A shame that you will not be able to attend your father's
funeral, is it not? They will seal his body into a casket to wait for you.
I wonder how long it will be before your mother goes on without you?"
Andrew heard all of his words, but they receded into the distance.
His father, gone. He'd known his father was dying...but still. He sat
down on his bunk and gave himself to his grief.
"Yes, I thought that would dim your ardor for my guards." the
Archbishop said. "They speak of how quickly you give yourself to every man
who looks your way, though I confess I had thought that was idle gossip
until I saw it with my own eyes. Surely the King could obtain a more
steadfast lover for his dalliances, I would think."
"Valbotg has been kind to me." Andrew flared. He wanted to hurt this
arrogant man, with words since he had no sword. The need overcame even his
grief at this moment...or was its substitute. "One may find a good man in
a mercenary's troop....just as one may find a scoundrel in the garb of an
Archbishop!"
That hit the Archbishop, all right, his face deepened as he scowled.
"Filthy Neresterii scum!" he snarled at Andrew. "Sodomites and catamites,
every one of you! We French did you a favor, coming to this land!"
"Do you mock your ancestors so easily?" Andrew returned. "I know your
lineage as well as you. The first Montaigne Duke of Heslov took a
Neresterii bride, as did his son. So did most of the French lords created
by Phillippe I. I have spoken with Frenchmen, they do not consider you to
be French any more than they consider me to be English, though I have more
English blood in me than you have French!"
It felt good, hurting the Archbishop with his words, but now the price
came, for Andrew was unarmed and his feet shackled on a short chain, the
Archbishop stepped up and backhanded him across the face, hard! The heavy
ring of office he wore cut Andrew's cheek sharply though the blow itself
was scarcely harder than a slap, he turned and bent with the blow, and felt
wetness on his cheek, but no more.
"I will not keep you the more." the Archbishop said, the words tight
as a rope. "Know that you live only because I may have need of you. The
moment that need is gone...so are you!"
And the Archbishop left.
Andrew sat back down on his bed. His father...dead. And him not even
there to hold his mother and comfort his wife who had been so favored of
his father, and his son, bewildered at the mourning going on around him....
Curse the Archbishop! He would stab that fiend right through the center of
the cross he dared wear embroidered upon his chest!
Valbotg re-entered the cell and, seeing Andrew in sorrow, simply sat
beside him and held him while Andrew cried, then left him alone. And so in
slow mourning, Andrew passed the day.
There followed some days in the cell like this, Andrew wondering first
what had gone wrong with his plan. Surely either Renaud or Charles would
have learned of his imprisonment now. Surely they would come rescue him at
any moment! Surely....
He questioned Valbotg to the point where the pretense of the brother
wore impossibly thin. Valbotg was kind about it but Andrew could tell that
he had realized Andrew's lie and use of him, and while he would not tell
the Archbishop, neither would he help Andrew the more. When Andrew spurned
Valbotg's advances as a result, the guard was changed to another, and he
didn't even see Valbotg any more.
Nearly a week had gone by since his imprisonment, and Andrew had
nearly given up all hope, believing now that his message had gone to
naught, when the Archbishop again visited his cell. This time, fury was
etched upon the cruel man's features.
"You!" He shook in fury. Then he backhanded Andrew, hard! This time
it was no mere petulance on the Archbishop's part, he was angry. Andrew
crouched back, hampered beyond any effective resistance by the shackles on
his feet, he balled his fists and determined not to bear another like that.
The Archbishop shivered in his rage, then he said, "The King went out
hunting with the Count and his men this morning, traveling north of the
city." Andrew looked his query at this minor information. "He has not
returned. The Count's men were diverted by the hunt, and when they looked
about themselves once again, the King and his Guards were gone."
Andrew felt a sigh of relief. The warning had gotten through, the
King was safe! He rose up and moved toward the Archbishop. "So your plans
for Carlovain come to nothing." he said. "With the King warned and out of
your reach, you can only cause another civil war if you act now. If you
will end this and beg the King's pardon, I am certain he will not be overly
harsh in his punishment."
He had been careless in moving forward, another hand was coming at him
and he blocked it only partially. Too long in shackles in the cell, unable
to move effectively, it had left him feeling as weak and feeble as if he
had been ill. He reeled from the impact, stumbled back onto the cot.
"You were the one who brought him the message from Merlemagnists!" the
Archbishop accused him. "You warned the King!"
"How could I have?" Andrew said disingenuously. "I have been here all
the time. I have not been allowed near the King."
"You carried the message, then gave it to that blond-haired, beastly
son of the Marquis of Lesleran to give the King." the Archbishop fumed.
"You let yourself be captured in order to let him escape with the papers."
How did the Archbishop know all this? Perhaps the Royal Chamberlain
had overheard and warned him. No real matter, he knew. "Very well."
Andrew said. "I did indeed carry the papers across Carlovain, but they
were your own words. You condemned yourself."
"But with the King in flight, probably north into the Neresterii
lands, I have no further need of you." the Archbishop said. "Enjoy your
night." he turned. "On the morning, you shall die."
Andrew was left alone, and as if in answer to his wondering as to the
hour, the light dimmed. Dusk had come, and with it, the end of day.
Surely the King, now warned, would send him aid. Perhaps Renaud would
insist on leading an expedition to help him. Maybe Charles would even join
in.
Surely.
Perhaps.
Maybe.
The long, long night turned slowly into dawn. Dawn was the hour for
executions in Carlovain, the time when life was said to be weakest, and
death rose and walked about as the forces of nature were briefly caught
between light and darkness, with darkness holding more powerful sway. It
harked back to pagan rituals of the dawn, but the custom remained, as the
sun rose, they came for Andrew.
Into the cold morning, his hands bound behind his back with rope, the
shackles replaced with others that hobbled his walk but let him shuffle
forward in halting steps, Andrew was taken out of the cell. Through the
front door he had seen only barely before, he saw that the courtyard was
lined with the Archbishop's Guards. Beyond this line were the townspeople
of Fediresta, come to see a lord die. Andrew looked about...surely help
would come!...but there was none to be seen. He rose up the steps with
difficulty, a guard helping him raise his feet a sufficient height to go up
the steps. And there on top was a block, and a burly man with an axe,
hooded with black. And Count Ernaud was there, in obvious alliance with
the Archbishop.
His hour had come, Andrew realized. He must die now.
He felt despair rise up...and with it, resignation. Well, if nothing
was left to choose but the manner of death, he would take it well. He
raised his head up high, proud, walked with steps as dignified as he could
to the block.
There is a ritual to an execution, the blessing said for the man to
die, the pronouncement by the judge--here the Archbishop--and then the
condemned is allowed a chance to say a few words. Then they lay his head
down on the block and it is chopped off.
Too quickly for Andrew, the first parts were over. "Say your piece."
grumbled the Archbishop as he gave way to Andrew.
Andrew looked out over the crowd. What was there to say? No friend
could hear him. Brave words sounded hollow to his inner ear.
He took in a deep breath. "Long live the King!" he called out at the
top of his voice. "Long live the King!"
It was a poor set of last words, but it was all his heart held. He
lowered his head and turned to the block. Rough hands forced him into
place. Pressing his head down upon the block, turned to one side so that
his neck would be more exposed. As ritual demanded, he was looking upon
the Archbishop.
To his surprise, the Archbishop knelt down with him. "I swore I would
see you die." he snarled into Andrew's face. "The last thing you see is
going to be my face, looking right at you. The face of a Montaigne, and
justice for my family, come at last."
He looked up, nodded to the executioner, and then back at Andrew.
His last look, the Archbishop's triumphantly angry face. Yet Andrew
could not bring himself to close his eyes! It would be his very last look,
his last vision of the world. Let not it end in darkness!
Cruelly livid eyes, a smirk on the face, anger and hatred towards
Andrew. And then...the executioner's axe fell, but on the Archbishop!
The Archbishop saw the axe leveled towards his own neck, slicing
horizontally towards him rather than straight down at Andrew, and he made
the first start of a move away, and the axe found his neck. Razor sharp,
it cut cleanly through and the headless body of the Archbishop fell out of
Andrew's narrow view.
He felt a tug at the ropes binding his arms, a knife was cutting him
free! The axe flew again in the general astonished silence at what had
occurred, this time severing the shackles of his feet.
Andrew needed no more. Rescue had come! He clambered to his feet,
the heavy iron circles at his ankles impeding him, but he was ready to run
all day with them on his feet if he had to.
He looked up into an incipient chaos. The Guards were only now
reacting to the death of their lord. But the crowd around them...the
weather of early morning was chill in this seaside town. Most of the
viewers wore cloaks, and now those cloaks were flung aside and a field of
swords rose up around them.
There were scattered fights here and there as some Guards, more
foolish or more frightened or more ready to shed blood in battle, fought,
but to all intents and purposes, the battle was over before it began.
Andrew was bewildered, standing on the block which was to have been
his doom, and instead it was the crowd of the Archbishop's soldiers about
him who were suddenly the captives.
"We meet again." Count Ernaud said to Andrew.
Andrew looked upon the man, whom he remembered only as a cruel,
arrogant young man. "I owe you my life." he said. "I am grateful."
"I did it not for you." the Count growled. "Not even for my brother
who came to me with news of your capture and pleaded with me for your
release."
"Then why?" Andrew said. "You have no reason to help me."
"I didn't do it to help you, I did it to help myself!" the Count said.
"I have the domain of Fediresta, was I to throw that away to get vengeance
upon the very King who put me here? Would you have done so, you who are
now Duke of Heslov?"
"Of course not." Andrew said. "But I am grateful just the same."
"And I'm grateful to you, for bringing those papers. All we had to go
on was rumor and suspicion, until those papers were laid into the King's
hands. I couldn't accuse my father and older brother of treason without
that, for all their schemes against me. But now lay your gratitude before
the one who has earned it; I would have let your head go flying!"
Andrew turned to follow the Count's pointing hand and there... "Your
Majesty!" he said and held the cloaked figure tightly.
"Steady, my beloved friend, steady!" the King chided him.
Andrew held him tightly, just the same. "I come to save you, and
instead you save me, Sire." he breathed.
"We saved each other, for now with the papers you brought, we have the
tools to take the last of the traitors from among us." the King said. "I
can finish the job started five years ago with you at Winseran Point."
Guards cleared the way for the King and Andrew to the coach waiting
for them. Once they were seated within its interior, Andrew said. "Sire,
I thought I was going to die." He said this, preparatory to once again
thank the King for his salvation.
"Yes." the King said, "And I have only one thing to say on that, my
dearest friend.."
"What is it, Sire?"
"Couldn't you have come up with a better set of last words than that?"
Andrew laughed and embraced his lord and his lover.
Back in the King's chamber, this time as an honored guest, Andrew was
given the chance to cleanse his body which had been sorely fouled over the
last week in captivity. Once done with his bath and with a hot meal inside
of him, he was suddenly, sorely tired. The King was busy with his
ministers as they planned how to deal with the remnants of the rebellion,
now without its leader, so Andrew said simply to the servant set to care
for him. "Take me to a bed and let me sleep through the day if I can. I
don't wish to be wakened unless the King calls for me."
He was taken to the royal chamber, red satin trimmed with ermine, and
ensconced within a comfort his body had come to expect and had done without
for the past weeks, he fell soundly asleep.
When he awoke, it was well into the afternoon, but it wasn't the sun
which had roused him. The King had joined him in the bed, and the bare
flesh of his sovereign was pressing against him.
Andrew sighed happily. "We are together once more." he breathed.
"Always." the King promised him. "For so long as I have breath within
me."
"I have missed you." Andrew said as his hands traveled over the
gentle, regal flesh. The King's body felt cool--that was the oncoming
winter--the skin was taut upon his body, the muscles making discrete bumps
upon their allotted portions, rather than flowing smoothly across his body.
It felt less like stroking a person and more like stroking a sculpture made
of marble, save that this skin was not cold, uncaring marble, but more like
sun-warmed sand you ran your hand across in languid comfort as the sun
bronzed your body. Like a last taste of summer.
Andrew reached his lips for his King's and was surprised to feel his
body still was reluctant to move about. It had been held still too long,
his body needed more rest, and then time to slowly stretch back out the
muscles truncated by the enforced rest of the shackles.
"Sire, I fear that I shall not be a proper lover for you this day."
Andrew said sorrowfully. "My body has deteriorated in it captivity, and is
averse to move for me once again. I fear I was used more grievously than I
had thought, bound as I was."
The King only smiled kindly. "Then we shall not put any undue strain
upon you until you have recovered." he said. "Lie upon the bed and permit
me to labor for your pleasure."
Andrew obeyed and the King's lips were avid upon his lips, then across
his cheek, and down his breast. Andrew felt those lips clutch at one of
his nipples and nurse most ardently at it, the tongue adding its
counterpoint to the caress, so much that he wished his body would give
forth milk and so nourish the hungry mouth fastened upon him. And the
King's head moved on, nestling between his breasts, kissing the hollow
concave there, Andrew's heart pounding in his chest in an attempt to jump
out and kiss back those gentle guests of his body.
And the King moved on, and now Andrew's ribs were being licked by the
King's tongue, long strokes along the bones there, invisible and unknown to
Andrew until this moment, when the King's kisses brought them to life by
his touching of them.
And the King moved on and now Andrew's navel was being probed by that
mischievous tongue, which dug in so deeply that Andrew felt his navel
indent the more from the pressure, the tongue like a warm jewel placed
there to be snuggled into the tight oval of flesh and cling there ever
afterwards.
And the King moved on, and now that tongue was exploring the dense
brush of his pubic hair, sliding among the slender reeds of the tangled
hairs there, trodding over them when it had to, but mostly keeping its tip
onto his flesh beneath it, and again Andrew's body, a neglected part
brought to life, keened its pleasure.
And the King moved on and now his mouth climbed the throne of Andrew's
manhood with all dignity, and sat upon its crest, and like the royal robes
of a high court that rippled down the steps around the throne, the King's
lips rippled down the sides of Andrew's shaft, and covered him in their
velvety warmth.
Andrew could lay still no longer, though his body still resented his
demands upon it, he had the King's body angled out on the bed near him,
that royal pud was there for the taking, and he grasped it in his hand,
holding the fleshy sceptre which adorned itself with a clear pearl of musky
dew.
"Ah, ah, my loyal lord." the King said. "You trespass upon my domain
without my permission."
"Punish me, then." Andrew sighed. "For I shall not depart now that I
am here." And he milked the heavy pud and the pearly drop exuded itself
into a teardrop that reached down from the weeping eyelet to touch and
break itself upon the bedding like a bubble that touches the grass blades.
Andrew pulled on this hungrily curving shaft, his lips ached to wrap around
it, and he moved though his body yelled out with every move, and the King
did not resist him, but instead straightened his legs, and soon Andrew's
mouth captured and covered the King's prick, and it became a fire-heated
poker of male strength in his mouth.
Andrew tried to work that familiar, beloved prong with his usual
vigor, but his body refused and overcame his desire at last, after only a
few minutes of earnest movements accompanied by grateful moans from his
sovereign, he was forced to retreat from the field.
"Ah, forgive me, Sire, I cannot continue." Andrew said.
"I myself tire at this position." the King agreed. "I am some years
your elder, you must remember, and my bones this time of year tell me of my
oncoming gray hairs."
"You have no gray hairs." Andrew protested.
"They are there." the King said as he hitched himself up to sit beside
Andrew. "Unseen, but only waiting their chance to reveal themselves."
Andrew raised himself up to rest his back upon the bed's backboard.
"I know something of what you mean." he said. "My body's pains must be
what old age shall one day feel like, a general ache that goes on and on."
"And I expect that this is the part that aches you the most." the King
said, grasping Andrew's prick and pumping it firmly.
"Ah, ah, yes, my Lord, that part grieves me greatly!" Andrew moaned,
and his hand found new strength and reached for the King's own.
They kissed as their hands pleasured each other in the room which
seemed to grow colder by the moment, and in fact was, for a cold wind had
arisen from off the seas and was blowing about the small seaside town, the
cold air trapped by the hills and turned back upon itself, manufacturing a
strong fog outside and filling the inside with a damp coldness. Yet in
this coldness, the two bodies in the bed had found a way to warm themselves
just the same.
Andrew felt the King's cock grow hotter in his hand, and his own dick
seemed to throb with its urgency. He grunted his pleasure into the King's
lips and the King took this as license to pound his cock the harder, and
did, and Andrew's pud swelled hotter and harder and the inside of this
swelling was concentrated pleasure waiting to break free.
The King was panting heavily, some of the breaths catching in his
throat, only to burst out louder a split-second later, uh-huh, uh-huh,
uh-huh-huh-uh!
"Ah, my time is upon me." Andrew groaned as the pleasure in his cock
seemed to grow together into a palpable object inside his cockshaft. "I
cannot tarry the longer."
"Tarry not, my beloved friend, but bestow your seed upon me and I
shall repay you in kind." the King gasped out.
Andrew gave himself entirely to his pleasure, his lips resting upon
the King's cheek, and he moaned his joy against that taut, thin layer of
skin, and then his climax rose within him and he groaned loudly and his
cock sprayed out at the King.
And the King gasped at the hot spew hitting him and then his own prick
jetted out and splattered Andrew in its turn, just as the King had
promised. Andrew felt the power of his ejaculation as it thrust itself out
of his cock to splash against the King and at the same time he felt the
widely scattered splats of the King's jism as it rained down upon him.
Some time later, their passions spent, their come congealing and
cooling upon them, in the cold wetness of the room into which the mist had
intruded as a ghostly but present visitor, Andrew kissed his sovereign
lover once again, and realized that his body would not recover properly
from the exhaustion of passion. "I must rest more now, Sire." he
apologized. "My body is spent entire."
"And I have been glad to make it so, for you need rest to recover from
your imprisonment." the King agreed. "I fear that for myself, I must go
out and attend to the business and the promises I have made these last few
days."
"Yes, promises." Andrew said sleepily. "I have a few of those myself.
Like a cathedral shaped like a cockleshell."
"A cockleshell?" the King was surprised. "Do you jest?"
Andrew smiled. "I fear not, but I did promise it to the
Merlemagnists, and so I shall build it for them."
"At Heslov?"
"Yes, Sire."
"Well." the King was at a loss. "If you must, you must, though that
shall be something to see."
"Brother Eserel has promised to help me make it beautiful." Andrew
said, smiling. "I shall hold him to that promise myself. And who knows,
one day it may be as beautiful as he has promised."
*
THE END OF "KNIGHT OF CARLOVAIN"
*
[Author's Postscript: Keep an eye on that cockleshell-shaped cathedral,
you'll be seeing it again in future episodes of this series. I plan to
skip about a hundred years for the next series, so let me tell you briefly
about the rest of Andrew's life.
He never again had such an adventure, though there was much as the second
Moresta Duke of Heslov (for Andrew was of the Neresterii Clan Moresta, you
may remember) that he had to do. He kept his promise to the Merlemagnists
and built the Cathedral of Christ's Crown at Heslov, an built it just as
round as the plans called for. Flying buttresses for the outer walls
softened the roundness, though, and when it was done, it looked less like a
cockleshell and more like a spider, which was the word the vulgar gave it
during its construction. But when faced with brown stone that shone warmly
in the sun, its simple design was appreciated. It never did supplant the
"pencil" cathedral in central Heslov, but there were many who preferred to
take their devotions within the "Cockleshell's" more kindly interior.
Two years after this, in 1477, Charles the Bold, Grand Duke of Burgundy,
was killed in battle. Though his daughter married the King of Austria, it
was France who swallowed up most of the duchy and ended its long period of
independence. France obtained the provinces of Alsace and Lorraine which
the Germans felt entitled to and they've been disputing ownership of those
lands ever since.
We all know what happened some years later, in 1492. The impact was slow
in Europe, for many believed as Columbus that he had simply found a new way
to the Indies. But in time, everyone realized that there was a new
continent out there in the Atlantic Ocean, land free for the taking after
you pushed aside a few inconsequential aboriginal inhabitants. And as
always, there were many who needed land.
As for Andrew, he lived a long life, had three sons, who each had several
children of their own. Carlovain was slower than most lands to seek its
fortune in the New World. But there did come the day when the expedition
was formed for the New World from Carlovain, and when it did, it carried
one of the great-grandchildren of Andrew in its complement who...ah, but
that's another story!]
*
[A FURTHER P.S. TO NIFTY ARCHIVES READERS. I don't plan to post future
episodes of this series at Nifty (because I really do plan a large number
of sequels about Carlovain, far more than I care to burden Nifty with), but
you can find/keep up with the series by visiting "Tommyhawk's Fantasy
World." There's a link to it in the Links section of Nifty Archives.]