JiM :: Cade, or Errant Madness

1. The Tavern

It was mid afternoon when the stranger came into the 'Ram & the Ewe'. It was market day and the tap room was full of weatherbeaten farmers whose hands and boots were caked with the red mud of this valley. The hum of conversation died as people turned to look at the newcomer.

He wasn't a farmer, that much was clear from his bearing. Tall and proud, shoulders not rounded by years of carrying loads too heavy for them, eyes not dimmed by squinting into the summer sun, the man moved through the tavern with an unhurried grace, the prowl of a predator. The farmers and woodcutters all melted out of his path like sheep before a wolf.

He chose a table against the wall, close to the hearth. When he dropped his cloak on the bench beside him, the other patrons saw that he wore a sword in a well-oiled scabbard that rode low along one thigh. If his bearing hadn't already warned them, his weaponry guaranteed that he would be treated with wary courtesy. The man raised his hand and snapped his fingers once, summoning a server, then took a seat with his back to the wall.

The hum of conversation resumed and most of the eyes in the room turned away. One set didn't and the stranger slowly became aware of their scrutiny when the sensation of being studied became almost physical. They belonged to a boy, no, a young man who stood behind the bar at the far end of the room. Light colored eyes seemed to see and catalog everything about him, from his mud-splashed boots to the sword at his side and the daggers sheathed in braces on his forearms. That gaze skipped up the lacings of his leather jerkin, swept across his face, noted his bald crown, then slid down to meet his eyes. The young man jerked in surprise when he realized the stranger was returning his scrutiny, but he could not look away. The tall man in dark traveling leathers did not choose to release him yet and so his gaze was caught and held. He stood and stared, eyes widening, until the tavern-owner shoved him in the shoulder and barked something at him.

Shaking free of the stranger's stare, the boy turned away, gathered up a handful of wooden mugs and busied himself filling them. The tall man watched as he crossed the room, slamming mugs down and snatching up the coins rudely tossed at him. One farmer wound his arm around the boy's waist and said something too low to be heard across the room but which set his comrades to raucous laughter. The pot boy snapped something and shrugged the man's hand off, which caused the man's friends to roar with mean-spirited laughter even as the half-drunken farmer pulled back his hand for a blow. Nimbly avoiding the backhanded slap, the young man continued across the room to the stranger's table with one mug left.

Reaching this empty corner of the tavern, the youngster slapped the mug down, careless of the ale that foamed over the rim. He licked the foam of the back of his hand, then ran his fingers through his tangled brown hair, brushing it away from his eyes. When he looked up, the stranger could see that his eyes were hazel, light and fine, and with a curious depth to them. The youngster was slender and seemed nearly delicate in comparison to the rough bulk of most of the tavern's customers, but he was well-formed and muscular, if not as large as his neighbors. He wore a dust-colored homespun tunic and dark trousers held up with a bit of rope. Looking at him, the stranger wondered if others saw what he saw—a prince in disguise, a thoroughbred made to do a pony's work. Without conscious thought, the tall man's hand reached out and gripped the boy's forearm. The young man's startled gaze met his and he was caught again.

After a moment, the stranger pulled a coin out of his belt pouch and held it up between them. It was far more money than the ale was worth. The young man's gaze flickered between the coin and the stranger's dark and dangerous stare. Then, slowly, one brown hand came up to take the coin. The stranger held it away and said,

"When?"

The hazel-eyed boy swallowed, and his full lips thinned with something that might have been bitterness, then he said,

"Sunset."

The soldier, (for what else could he be, looking as he does?), brought the coin back between them and this time, he allowed the young man to touch his fingers to it. But he kept his own grasp on it as well.

"Where?"

Those lips tightened again and the luminous gaze dropped away. "Stable."

The man waited a moment longer, then released his grip on the coin. The boy looked at him one more time, a searching complicated look, then turned away and made his way back through the crowd to the bar. The large man leaned back against the wall again, out of the slanting pale golden rays of the autumn sun, and settled himself to wait for sunset.

The soldier ate a bowl of passable stew, served to him by a woman who had to be the inn-keeper's dumpy wife. The young man wasn't in evidence for most of the afternoon, sent to the cellars to help store a wagon load of beer. The stranger continued to sit beside the hearth, nursing his one mug of ale, thinking his own thoughts. He waited until the sun shone red through the thick glass windows, then stood abruptly, making the few farmers left in the room start uneasily. He strode over to where the innkeeper was leaning on the bar. He slapped a small coin down and said, "Keep a room for me. I may be a few hours. It's a good night for…hunting." The innkeeper could do no more than nod.

The stranger went outside, slinging his cloak around his shoulders against the chill bite in the air. This late in the year, it became cold soon after the sun set. He dismissed the cramped houses that lined the muddy street as unworthy of his notice. The shoulder of the hill behind the inn looked more promising, so he went up the hill to view the sunset from the shadows of the tall pine trees.

Tired. He was tired and he had failed and he was returning with nothing to show for months of searching but creases in his leather. Failure was bitter to him, but more bitter still was the knowledge that he could not have succeeded at his task. He had been sent out to find a man with no name, no description and no surety that he was even searching in the right country. It had been hopeless from the start. His jaw clenched as he thought about it.

His baron was not a forgiving man and he wondered how the news of his failure would be taken. But he had to return and report; it was his duty and he had known what he was agreeing to years ago when he'd left the mercenary companies and contracted with the Baron's private guard. He had been a man with no home, no money and no name then. Now, at least, he had money. And money bought ale and better horses and warmer clothing and some of the minor pleasures in life—like the boy in the tavern. The man in dark leather wrenched his mind away from his dark thoughts and tried to fix it on pleasure as he watched the twilight creep down the valley.

After a time, he saw the young man leave the inn and cross the packed dirt yard to the stable. A dim lamp glow appeared in the upper story. The soldier waited until the last sharp edge of the sun had slipped beneath the horizon before making his deliberate way to the barn and entering it from the shadowed end away from the inn.

The air of the stable was warm and heavy with the sweet aroma of new hay and the heavy, comfortable smell of horses. The few travelers' beasts stabled here were calm, whickering softly or stamping a hoof as he passed their stalls. He stopped at his own mount's stall and rubbed the bay's wide forehead for a moment before continuing on. Halfway down the stable, there was a narrow flight of stairs that led to the hayloft. He climbed it with silent and unhurried steps in the gloom. He paused when his head and shoulders cleared the floor of the loft.

There were bales of hay stacked from the floor to the slanted ceiling in all directions. In one corner, the tavern boy had carved out a space for himself, a room formed of stacks of hay, outlining a warm haven. There was a small battered chest and a wooden pallet holding a straw-stuffed mattress and a pile of coarse wool-blankets. The loft was lit by a single lantern which the tavern boy had left hanging from a beam over his pallet.

The soldier watched as the young man stripped to the waist, dipped a rag in a bucket of water and washed away the sweat and grime of the day. The water was cold and the air of the loft biting, so the young man scrubbed quickly at his skin, the water trickling down his abdomen and soaking into his trousers. The glow of the lantern turned his well-muscled chest into a playground for light and shadow, the drops of water glittering as he swiped at the back of his neck.

The stranger's breath caught in his throat. By all standards, the young man ought to be ugly, or at best, homely. He was so slender his ribs could almost be counted, had a large nose, thick lips…there was no earthly reason for him to be the most beautiful and rare thing the soldier had seen in years. There was no reason for his hands to burn to touch that golden skin, for his mouth to thirst suddenly for a taste of him, no need to know how he would sound when he cried out with pleasure at the touch of sword-callused hands.

Fool, he cursed himself, and took the last few stairs up. It's one night's pleasure, no more, then back to the capital to report his failure. By rights, he ought not to have stopped this night, but he felt he was owed something and a tavern lad's fee wasn't too high a price for his master to pay occasionally.

The young man started when he saw the leather-clad traveler standing there, silently watching him. Not meeting his eyes, the younger man dropped the rag into the bucket, then stood waiting. The stranger came closer, then began unclasping his cloak.

"What's your name?"

The boy was startled by the question and he answered hesitantly. "Fox."

The older man dropped the cloak on the chest, then unbelted his sword and laid it carefully on top of the wool. "That's an ill-omened name," he commented, reaching for the laces of the braces on his forearms.

"So they tell me," the younger man said, a bitter twist to his lips. "It's true enough."

As if he suddenly remembered his role, he stepped forward and began unlacing the older man's braces himself. His fingers were nimble and quick. Standing this close, the older man was able to see how fine and smooth the boy's skin was, even tanned as it was. Fox was nearly as tall as he was himself, but seemed smaller somehow, as he kept his head down and his eyes on his task.

"How old are you, Fox?" Why bother asking? He was obviously not a child, which was all the soldier really cared about. Or so he told himself.

"Twenty this harvest time." Ripe, then, but not too mature to have lost his sweetness. The older man felt a rush of heat as the boy began unknotting the lacing of his tunic, the heavy leather creaking as he breathed deeply.

"What's your name?" Fox asked abruptly.

Ah, not experienced enough to know that the one with the money has every name or none at all, as he chooses. But he was in an odd mood tonight, so he answered. "They call me Skinner."

The younger man looked up quickly, with a slight mocking smile on his face. "And you say my name is ill-omened?"

"But I chose my own name, boy."

The quick fingers moved down to loosen the big man's belt, distracting him from the conversation.

"What was it before?"

Oh, a true innocent, this boy. Skinner shook his head in amusement, but he growled, "Whatever name I may once have had, it remains mine alone. Understand?"

The younger man looked up quickly, then his gaze dropped to the floor. "Sorry," he said flatly.

Seeing that he had gotten his point across, Skinner lightly gripped the back of Fox's neck and pulled his head up. He kissed the young man gently, testing. After a frozen moment, Fox responded eagerly, lips parting enough to encourage further exploration. Skinner let his hands begin wandering over the young man's still-damp skin. The boy was chilled, he could feel the gooseflesh and little tremors under his hands. Skinner rubbed up and down the strong arms and back to warm him, even as he refused to release that sweet mouth.

Fox tasted of spring water and apples and his kiss was untutored but enthusiastic. Skinner pulled him closer still, hard against his chest, teased by the cool silk of the young man's skin where his tunic hung open. His large hands skimmed down the graceful planes of Fox's back, one hand sliding down beneath his coarse trousers to discover the firm and muscular ass hidden there. The young man stiffened suddenly and nearly jerked out of Skinner's arms before recollecting himself.

"I paid for the whole package, Fox," Skinner reminded him, hand sliding down possessively again.

The young man nodded, looking down again, body still and cold in Skinner's grip. "I know you did. Just…I need to be able to work tomorrow," he said softly into the gaping placket of Skinner's tunic.

Understanding dawned and Skinner put both hands on Fox's shoulders and pushed him away enough to get a good look at him. There were yellowing bruises across the boy's hips and ribs. Skinner was hardly an innocent, and apparently, neither was this man. It seemed a pity that someone had been brutal when the barest amount of gentleness had the young man moaning into his mouth, ready to share all the sweetest pleasures of his body.

"I won't hurt you."

Fox looked up quickly, then his eyes darted off over Skinner's shoulder and he said distantly, "A few bruises are fine. It's the bleeding…"

"I said, I won't hurt you," Skinner said harshly. He ran his hands over the tense shoulders, kneading a little at them as his lip curled at the idea of what ham-handed village idiots and clumsy indifference had done to the beauty in his grip. Keeping one warm hand on Fox's shoulder, Skinner began to rub one thumb across the boy's full bottom lip. He was obscurely pleased when Fox's eyes drifted shut in pleasure. The slightest pressure of Skinner's fingers under his jaw drew him into another deep kiss. His mouth opened naturally and easily to Skinner's probing tongue and his hands slid up the larger man's arms, pulling him closer still.

Skinner released his mouth with a final nibble at that fascinating lower lip before letting himself drift lower, down the brown column of Fox's throat. A nip at the juncture of shoulder and neck had the younger man swaying against Skinner, evidence of his arousal hard against the soldier's thigh. When Skinner bent and sucked one plum-colored nipple into his mouth, Fox moaned, a low purring noise that shot straight to the older man's cock.

He had forgotten the uncomplicated pleasures of seduction, the eroticism of being responsible for forcing another to cry out in simple animal bliss. Skinner's hands were ranging across Fox's back and sliding up and down his sides. This time, when one hand slid beneath his trousers, Fox only moaned again, then reached between them for Skinner's cock. His hand was talented as he traced the outline of Skinner's arousal, then moved to unlace the leather trousers. The soldier's devoted attention to his other nipple distracted him momentarily, until he pushed away, surprising Skinner.

The soldier's devoted attention to his other nipple distracted him momentarily, until he pushed away, surprising Skinner.

Fox pivoted, guiding Skinner to stand beside the bed. He pushed again, lightly, until Skinner sat. Then Fox skinned him out of his leather tunic and the linen shirt beneath, hands hot and quick and caressing . In the golden light of the lantern, Fox was flushed and smiling and Skinner's fists knotted with wanting as the younger man dropped to his knees between Skinner's legs. He drew Skinner's boots off with incongruous strength, then paused for a heated moment's look. Skinner growled and seized him again, taking his mouth hungrily. Fox ran warm hands up Skinner's thighs, pushing away again to draw the travel-stained leathers down, encouraging Skinner to raise up enough for Fox to slide them off entirely. Without pausing, he opened his mouth and took Skinner's cock in, causing the older man to grit his teeth in carnal shock.

Fox's face was in shadow, but his tongue was a sharp, bright fire along Skinner's nerves. He untangled one hand from among the blankets and reached down to cup the side of Fox's head. The motion of the younger man's throat and cheek around his cock and against his hand was fever-inducing. He stroked his hand across Fox's face in a caress and was rewarded by a hum of pleasure that vibrated all through him.

Suddenly it was too much but he still needed more. He pushed Fox's head away. The sight of the younger man's wet and swollen lips was shockingly erotic and he drew his thumb across them again for the sheer pleasure of seeing Fox's bright eyes close.

"What do you use to get yourself ready?" Skinner's voice sounded rough and uneven in his own ears. Fox's eyes flickered open in confusion, then became a little guarded. He didn't speak, but slipped two fingers into his own mouth, drawing them out a moment later to show to Skinner, wet and slick.

The idiot. Skinner was torn between throwing the boy on the bed and fucking him to exhaustion and simple shock. "Don't you have any oil?" When Fox shook his head, Skinner wanted to cuff him for being stupid and too naive to sell his body. Even the lowest street prostitutes kept a box of tallow or a bottle of lamp oil with them, if they could afford nothing better.

A modicum of sanity returning, Skinner reached over to his pile of clothes and took a small leather flask out of his belt pouch. Looking back at Fox, still kneeling nervously between his knees, Skinner watched him fumble with the knotted rope belting his trousers. Skinner drew out one of his daggers.

"Stand up," he ordered. Fox stood shakily, hands at his sides, cloth tenting around a noticeable erection. Skinner let the cool tip of the dagger draw a short line down Fox's belly. With a quick upward flick of his wrist, Skinner cut the rope, then he tossed the dagger back onto his pile of belongings. Turning his attention back to Fox, Skinner slid his hands down the young man's flanks, pushing the loosely hanging trousers down the long legs to pool at his feet.

His erection had wilted slightly and Skinner turned his attention to that first. The youth was beautifully formed there, too. Not overly large, but straight and thick and Skinner suddenly wondered how it would taste, how it would feel in his mouth. But, no.

He unstoppered the leather flask and poured a puddle of cool oil into his hand. Capturing Fox's bright and worried gaze with his own, Skinner forced Fox to look into his eyes, so he was able to see the flash of hot shock when his large hand closed over the youth's cock. His oiled hand slid silkily over the rapidly firming flesh; he grinned as he heard Fox suck in his breath and felt him tremble at his touch.

Skinner let his hand slip back to cup Fox's lightly furred balls, forcing him to spread his legs more to allow the larger man's hand to caress and fondle him. Unable to take his eyes from Skinner's, Fox's hands came up to lock on the soldier's broad shoulders. His fingers dug into the muscles as Skinner's hand reached even farther back. Taking his hand away to pour more oil on his fingers, Skinner relished the gasp of surprised pleasure the boy gave when his hand slid back to tease against the puckered opening. Circling and dipping slowly, but surely Skinner worked one callused finger into that tight heat, then two. Looking down, he saw that Fox's erection had come back and was bobbing, red and flushed, proof of the boy's enjoyment. His own cock was so hard it was nearly painful and his control was perilously close to fraying. Withdrawing his hand, slowly sliding it back past Fox's balls and cock in a caressing glide, Skinner growled, "Come here."

Fox came to him with a gratifying lack of hesitation. Skinner lay back, feeling the rough scratching of the wool blankets beneath his shoulders, then he tugged on Fox's hands and drew him down. He manhandled the confused young man until Fox was straddling his hips and staring down at him in surprise.

"It's easier this way. Feels good, trust me."

Skinner's cock was bobbing against Fox's ass and the youth gave an experimental twitch backwards. Skinner gasped and gritted his teeth. Groping for the leather bottle again, Skinner grabbed Fox's hand and poured some oil into the palm.

"Get me ready," he ordered through his teeth. Fox's hand caressing him was a hellish pleasure that he never wanted to end. He slid his hands up Fox's thighs, signaling him to raise up. "Put it in," he ordered. Fox's hand fumbled for a moment, then took hold of Skinner's cock and slowly guided it into himself.

Skinner locked his jaw against the heat and rush of entering Fox's body. Thighs flexed, a look of determination on his face, the tavern boy slid himself down onto Skinner's length. It was maddeningly slow and steady and the soldier hadn't felt anything like this in years. When he was buried to the hilt, Skinner gripped Fox's hips and stopped him from moving.

"Does it hurt?"

At the boy's wondering headshake, Skinner felt a flare of triumph. "Good. Now move."

And Fox did, a slow undulating movement that shuddered all through the man beneath him. As he reassured himself that there was no pain awaiting him, Fox began to move faster, sweat running down his chest, dripping onto Skinner's. His odd, light eyes were fixed on Skinner's until the older man reached out and caressed his taut erection, still slick and oiled. Then Fox's eyes closed and he gave himself up to being fucked with a complete abandon that seared away any restraints Skinner had. The two men slammed together, growling and moaning, until Fox gave a shout, cock jerking in Skinner's hand. The flood of hot semen across his belly was lost on Skinner as Fox's spasming muscles ripped his own orgasm from him. He felt himself curving like a bow for endless moments of ecstasy, then the pleasure snapped and finally dropped him back to the blankets.

Fox slumped forward onto his chest and they spent long moments simply lying there panting. Skinner's arms were loosely linked around Fox and his hands moved haltingly across the boy's wet back. When he felt gooseflesh rising from the chill air of the loft, Skinner nudged at the younger man.

Fox clambered off of Skinner, wincing slightly when his now flaccid cock slipped free. Skinner watched as he took two steps away from the bed and bent to wring out the rag he had dropped into the bucket earlier. The slick smears of oil and semen down the backs of Fox's legs and buttocks made Skinner want to growl in sated possession as he quickly wiped himself down. The boy brought the rag back to him and wiped away the semen and sweat from his lover, smiling a little as Skinner winced at the cold water. Skinner lay a little longer enjoying the pampering before heaving himself upright.

He stood and swayed a little as his head swam with the pleasure still humming through him. Then the cold of the barn loft penetrated and he began to dress quickly. He pulled on his trousers and shirt, then yanked the tunic over his head and left it hanging unlaced as he reached for his boots. He sat on the edge of the pallet to pull them on, then looked up to find Fox watching him, sitting there naked, shivering.

The idiot. Skinner sighed and grabbed a blanket, flipping it around the boy's trembling shoulders. Moved by an odd impulse, Skinner kissed the damp forehead. "Sleep, boy. You've got to be able to work in the morning," he teased gently.

Fox smiled uncertainly but curled himself up in the blankets, watching as Skinner finished dressing. The braces were tucked into his belt at the small of his back and his cloak thrown over his shoulders when Fox spoke drowsily.

"Will you come again?"

Skinner stopped and looked at him, aware of some powerful unknown emotion moving through him at the younger man's glance, eyes so wide in the flickering lamplight. "I don't know," he said, wondering even as he did. He'd meant to say "No." Hadn't he?

Suddenly unnerved by the light in the youth's eyes, Skinner said only, "Good night," and spun on his heel and left, passing lightly down the shadowed stairs and out of the barn.

The cold snap of the autumn night did nothing to clear his head. He still felt loose and hot and his muscles still sang with the animal joy and heat of sex. He bought himself one mug of warmed ale to wash away the thirst. He drank it quickly standing before the fire in the nearly-empty common room. The tavern-keeper had held his room and he was astonished to find himself yawning even as he fell onto the bed. Lying there alone, Skinner could still smell Fox's scent on his skin; he imagined he could still taste Fox's apple flavored mouth moving over his own. For one mad moment, he thought about getting up and going back to the stable. Then he was asleep.

There was, he told himself, no reason to remain in this muddy little village another hour, let alone another night. His search was over, the beer was bitter and the hunting mediocre. Which is why Skinner found himself once again sitting in the taproom, close to the fire, watching the sun set. He hadn't seen Fox at all that day; the boy had been gone when he'd saddled his horse and nowhere in sight when Skinner had returned. Now he sat sipping ale and waiting for the innkeeper's wife to prepare one of the hares he had caught.

Suddenly, Skinner felt the prickling of eyes upon him. When he looked up, there was Fox, staring at him as he shouldered a keg up from the cellars. Skinner ignored the small leap in his gut at the boy's smile. He held up a coin, larger than the one that had changed hands last night. Fox blinked, then nodded once, turning away to drop the keg behind the bar.

Once again, Skinner paced down the darkened aisle of the stable, pausing to soothe his bay. One more time up these stairs, silent and careful, stalking his prey. Again, the catch in his throat at the sheer beauty of the man waiting for him. But this time, there is the quick smile, eagerness in the hands that reach for him, hunger in the mouth against his. It is good, hot and sweet and mad and he feels the hunger taking a deep root in him. Once again, he promises, "I will not hurt you," and everything he wants is laid out before him again.

He knows now that he has made a mistake, even buried to the hilt in the boy's welcoming body. Even hearing Fox panting his name, crying out in pleasure, begging for more from him, for anything he could give…Skinner knows that it was a mistake to remain. Because he will want this always, now. And he will never have it again, he thinks, as the young man curls up on his shoulder, their breathing still harsh with effort. He pets and soothes Fox, stroking his hair and face and shoulder, odd jumbled thoughts turning over slowly in his mind.

"I should go," he murmured regretfully.

"No, please," Fox whispered. "Stay a little. Perhaps we might…"

Skinner chuckled. "You have great faith in your ability, boy. Or is it my stamina? You've wrung me dry."

But he didn't move, enjoying the closeness, the soft sound of the boy whispering to him in the gloom. Pillow talk, he thought. How long since he had merely lain in bed with a lover and spoken about nothing and anything?

"Where would you go, if you could?" Fox asked suddenly.

Skinner hesitated for a long time, then told the boy the truth. "I'd go home, back north. Deep in the mountains, a man can build himself a cabin, hunt and fish and never speak a word for months on end."

Fox didn't laugh at his most cherished daydream, so he told a little more of the truth. "I found a lake once, so high up that you could see the stars reflected in it, even during the day. The water was deep and clear and so cold…I don't think any other man had ever been there. I camped beside that lake for three weeks and hardly had to work to feed myself, the game was so plentiful. I'd go there," he finished softly.

"Would you take me?" the question chuckled out of the dark.

"Only if you didn't talk so much," Skinner needled him gently. Fox remained silent, but stroked his thumb over Skinner's hand.

"Where would you go?" Skinner asked him, surprising himself by actually wanting to know the answer.

"The City of Circles," the young man said firmly.

"What—would you go seeking your fortune?" Skinner teased.

"No—my sister," Fox said gravely and Skinner's manner sobered. He ran a hand up and down Fox's arm. "Tell me," he invited.

"She was taken when I was twelve; she was only nine. Raiders came and attacked our manor when my father and mother were from home. It was just the two of us and the servants. Most of them were killed and I couldn't stop them…" Fox's voice trailed off and Skinner felt him swallow. "I tried to save her, I did, but one of the raiders rode me down. When I came to, she was gone."

Not even aware he was doing it, Skinner gathered the younger man a little closer and stroked his hair soothingly. "What makes you think she's in the city, then?"

"The raiders. They were too disciplined, too orderly. And their equipment was too good. I found some scraps of tabard left behind and one of them had what looked like a baronial device or a ducal crest. I showed it to my father, but he told me that it was probably the spoils of some other raid they had been on and that my sister was gone forever. But I didn't believe him then and I don't believe him now." Fox's voice had thickened with anger. "I think the attack was a way to control my father and that my sister is a hostage somewhere. A monk told me that the device I described belonged to a House in the city. I'll start there."

Skinner sat up and looked at what had been until so recently a cheap tavern pick-up. "Who is your father, boy?"

"No one," Fox answered sullenly. "He's dead. He stopped caring about the manor or anything after they took my sister. He sent me off to study with the monks and drank himself into the grave. When he died, my mother donated the lands and all of the money to the Church and all but walled herself up alive in one of the convents. I haven't seen her but twice since I turned fifteen."

"How could she do that?" Skinner was appalled.

Fox shrugged. "The title and lands were hers. She could do whatever she liked with them. She said she was making atonement for her sins and that I would have to make my way in the world without her. So I decided to try to find the only family member worth a damn in my life."

"The monks wouldn't help?"

"They became significantly less accommodating after my mother's lands and money were in their coffers. Once I was a penniless novice rather than an independently wealthy student, personal quests and difficult questions became a lot less permissible. I stuck it as long as I could."

"How'd you get here?" Skinner asked, settling back beneath the blankets and pulling Fox closer to warm them both. The young man's tale sounded like something bardic and improbable, yet he was obviously sincere.

"I traveled as long as my money held out, then started looking for work." Skinner's could hear the wry grimace in Fox's voice. "I shoveled manure for a pig farmer for a season. Then I worked cutting fustian last harvest until my hands bled. Then the tavern-keeper's son died from fever, so I came here. He's decent enough to me, but can only afford room and board, so I need to make money as I can. Therefore, here I am. Or, more exactly, here you are."

Skinner winced at the matter-of-fact reminder that this was merely a pleasant interlude in a business arrangement. His voice was acid when he asked, "And is this part of what they teach novices in the abbey school?" He felt Fox turn to stone beside him.

"Some of the monks prefer to offer individual tutorial," the young man said between clenched teeth. "Particularly to the poor and friendless novices; they're least likely to complain and who would believe them anyway? In any case", he continued coldly, "it's a more marketable skill than chanting plainsong or being able to recite all 151 psalms or illumination. You seemed to appreciate it."

Skinner was abruptly ashamed. His flare of bad temper at being reminded that it was his money, not his personal charms, that held this beauty in his arms was unforgivable. The boy had done nothing but live up to his side of the bargain, docile and giving, and Skinner had promised not to hurt him. Honor made him suppose that that included not hurting his pride, tavern whore or not.

He suddenly took hold of the boy and rolled over him, moving his lips apologetically over that sweet mouth again. Hearing Fox's breath catch in his throat, Skinner allowed his hands to roam, sliding down sweat-dampened ribs to the sticky thighs and back up to those fascinating nipples. He felt the renewal of interest in the boy's organ, pressed against his stomach, and decided to apologize by making slow and gentle love to him, wanting to make him feel like like a lover, not merely a bed-warmer, for just an hour.

At the time, he didn't question his odd impulse. Nor did he second-guess himself when he rose at dawn then next morning and told the boy that he would take him along to the City of Circles. The light in those strangely bright eyes seemed reason enough at the time.

2. The Journey

The three weeks of their journey were a strange time in Skinner's life. His young companion was talkative and surprisingly well-informed for a border lordling's son turned pot boy. He had the trick of remembering anything he had read or heard read to him and could recite entire passages of books, from Greek epics to Aristotle to the less canonical and therefore more interesting books of the Bible. His voice was dark-brown and flowed like honey over Skinner's shoulder and his arms were a warm and sturdy band around the former mercenary's waist. Sometimes, Skinner stopped listening for the meaning of the words and merely enjoyed the liquid caress of the young man's voice in much the same way that he enjoyed the call of the blackbirds in the rushes or the eagle's cry high above them.

Fox had only one small pack of belongings, little enough for a friendless wanderer; a spare tunic, a cloak, a miniature of his sister painted for her ninth birthday and three precious calf-skin bound books wrapped in oiled silk to keep them from damp. Slender as he was, Skinner's horse barely took notice of the added burden of another rider.

It had been a long time since Fox had ridden at all, let alone ridden pillion and their first day's ride of twenty miles left him cramped and stiff. He slid down after Skinner dismounted in the inn yard and nearly landed in a heap at Skinner's feet. The older man had steadied him, then matter-of-factly helped him to stand and had kept an arm around his waist, half-carrying him up to a room which already had a fire lit and a table laid for them. He didn't smile as Fox ate his bowl of stew standing; he merely warmed some ale for him and made him drink it. Fox's eyes darted to the small leather bottle Skinner had also left to warm on the hearth, but he said nothing.

"Get undressed," Skinner ordered. Fox moved to obey slowly. He opened his mouth once to speak, then seemed to shrug and said nothing as he stripped in the golden glow of the fireplace. When he was naked, he came to Skinner and began to unlace his braces as he had on that first evening. The belt and sword were laid aside and the braces and their hilted daggers too, but then Skinner stopped him.

"Go lie down on your stomach."

With a sigh, Fox lay down, his breath catching as his muscles protested. The bed had been drawn close to one side of the fireplace and he was warm enough to lie naked without shivering. When Skinner got up and went to the hearth, then came to stand beside the bed, Fox said quietly,

"I need to be able to ride tomorrow."

It took Skinner a moment to understand him, then he felt a surge of hot rage before his cooler, more cynical side calmed him. Of course the boy believed he was about to be used again, that was the tie between them, was it not? Sexual gratification for passage to the city.

"Be quiet," Skinner said and poured the warmed oil into his hand. Fox nodded and turned his head away. He jerked when Skinner's large hands touched his shoulders. His back was stiff and his muscles like iron beneath the soldier's kneading fingers. After a few minutes of silence, Fox asked in a choked voice, "What are you doing?"

"Keeping your muscles from locking up. You won't be able to move in the morning if we don't do something to ease them now."

Skinner enjoyed the startled silence he felt coming from Fox. More, he enjoyed watching his own hands skimming over the boy's back. Coated in oil, Fox's smooth skin was touched with gold from the firelight and it was silken beneath his callused hands.

They did not speak; the only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the whisper of skin moving across skin. When Skinner drew his hands firmly down the long back, Fox arched and cried out, a grimace on his face. The muscles of his lower back were so tense that they quivered beneath Skinner's stroke. "Shh," he soothed and set himself to working out the knots with knowing fingers. He used all the tricks learned in twenty campaigns and a hundred beds and was eventually rewarded with the feel of Fox relaxing beneath his hands.

The younger man tensed when Skinner began kneading his buttocks, but he took a deep breath and visibly relaxed again. Pleased with this small sign of the boy's trust, Skinner smiled to himself and dug his thumbs in, looking for the knotted muscles beneath the enticingly curved flesh. Fox's groan of relief told him when he found the right spots and he spent some time working them firmly, coaxing them to relax. His motions parted Fox's buttocks enough for him to see that there was some redness, perhaps a bit of swelling, but that he had done the boy no real damage the night before. Good. He had had enough of brutality, in himself and others.

He continued his massage down the backs of both long thighs, pausing for more oil and to admire the smoothly oiled line of Fox's back in the firelight. Beautiful. His lip turned up as he thought that this was his playground for the next three, maybe four weeks, until they reached the City of Circles . There he would return to the baron's service and Fox would continue his fool's quest for a sister who had been lost to him for nearly half her life.

Skinner's sturdy massage had dwindled to gentle caresses as he mused on the foolishness of keeping the boy with him after he returned to the city and his place as an officer of the baronial guard. He hadn't found a word strong enough to describe the stupidity of his musings when he realized that Fox was asleep beneath his hands. The boy looked impossibly young, head pillowed on his crossed forearms. Skinner found himself shaking his head at his own folly as he undressed quickly and slid into bed, drawing the covers over both of them before pulling Fox onto his side and back against his chest. As the boy's oiled skin caressed his with every sleeping breath, Skinner wondered what had become of his common sense. Still wondering, he fell asleep, face pressed against the back of Fox's neck.

Somehow, after that evening, Fox began to change. As they left behind the lands he had known, his spirits rose and his flashes of dry humor sometimes had Skinner laughing. He became playful and confident in his attentions to the older man, openly delighting in the effect he had on him.

One morning not long into the journey, Skinner became aware that Fox's hands had slipped from their loose grasp on his belt and were now resting lightly on his thighs. The trail led up through a deeply-wooded valley and the motion of the horse turned Fox's innocent touch into a tantalizing distraction. Feeling himself growing hard, Skinner casually moved the younger man's hands back up to his waist. After a short time, those hands slipped down again, this time coming to rest a little higher on his inner thighs. It took a few more uncomfortably provocative moments before Skinner realized the truth; the brat was teasing him.

He pretended not to notice, commenting evenly on the warmth of the morning. Out of the corner of his eye and over his shoulder, he saw Fox grin, the light of challenge in his eye. Battle was fairly joined then and it took most of Skinner's discipline to not react to Fox's increasingly blatant caresses. He broke finally when the young man slipped a hand inside his jerkin and pinched a nipple while stroking firmly up and down his organ. At Skinner's half-swallowed groan, Fox's laughter rang out clear and bright with victory.

Skinner reined his horse in and turned in the saddle. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out one powerful hand and drew Fox's head close to his. His expression was fierce and he saw a flicker of fear in the young man's eyes. Then he kissed Fox hungrily, not releasing him until they were both panting. "Just wait until this evening, boy," he growled.

"You don't want…," Fox half-gasped, a hopeful light in his eyes.

"Oh, I do," he said softly. "But I'm too old to take someone in the middle of a field. Just wait." And his grin was answered by one of Fox's. He kicked his horse back into a trot, trying to calculate the hours until sunset.

3. The City of Circles

They reached the baronial seat just as the bad weather began. The last day of the journey was spent shivering in the muck and steady drizzle of winter rain. Fox huddled beneath Skinner's better weatherproofed cloak, pressed tightly to the larger man, sharing his body heat and dozing. Until the rains had begun, Fox had watched their fellow-travelers with interest, speculating on their trades and purposes, noting the smallest and seemingly unimportant clues to make his guesses. It was an intriguing game and had kept the two men occupied, although Fox was proven right so often that Skinner half-suspected witchcraft.

It was mid afternoon when he gave his name at the gate and tried to think which inn he could install Fox in. He needed something low-priced and decent. There was no way he could bring him back to his room in the barracks. While man lovers were tolerated, if not welcomed among the guard, a pretty boy like Fox would be too tempting for lovers and bullies alike. Somehow, during the last few weeks, there had ceased to be any doubt that he would keep Fox and help him with his unlikely quest.

"The Baron wants your report directly, Skinner." The gate guard informed him. "You'll find him in the stables at this hour."

Skinner wanted to shiver and he did curse. Damn. He hated failure, had almost forgotten that this report would have to be made directly to the Baron. More, he had wanted to get Fox settled first; he had an uneasy feeling that leaving the younger man alone in this city would be an invitation to mischief. The man was consumed by his need to find his sister. Skinner had promised to help him make contacts with the servants of other baronial and ducal houses. If they searched long enough, someone would recognize the crest Fox could still sketch from that astonishingly exact memory.

He sighed. There was nothing for it, he'd have to take Fox with him now. His lord was not renowned for his patience. Skinner touched his heels to his mount's sides and headed for the baronial palace and the stables.

The rain began to pound down in earnest as they came in sight of the stables. The imposing stone building looked like a crouching predator, the huge wooden doors pushed back, torches sputtering fitfully inside. Skinner rode indoors and reined in just inside the door. Stable boys came trotting up to take the bay's reins as Skinner untangled his cloak from around Fox and dismounted. The young man blinked and yawned, looking even younger than he ought to in the uncertain light. Skinner was surprised by a flash of unreasoning fear for him.

"Where are we?" Fox asked, dropping lightly to the ground, watching Skinner as he wiped the rain from his face and tried to neaten his appearance. There was a knot of men grouped around a horse halfway down the wide aisle and Skinner knew the baron would be amongst them.

"The City of Circles. Currently, you're standing in the Baron's personal stables. Fox, be very careful here," Skinner said with sudden urgency. "Say nothing to anyone about your search. Let me help you in my own time. All right?"

"I don't understand," Fox began.

"That's the beginning of wisdom, young man," a harsh voice cut across Skinner's next words. He closed his eyes, swore silently, then turned and dropped to one knee. "My lord," he said respectfully, praying that Fox would follow suit. A flicker of movement beside him and he turned his head to see Fox finish executing a dancing master's dream courtesy. "My lord Baron."

The spectacle of a ragged peasant boy with the manners of a courtier appeared to amuse the Baron. Skinner saw one side of his mouth quirk and prayed that he was in a good mood. Skinner had forgotten, in the months that he had been away, how ominous his lord's appearance was. Today, in the whining dregs of a stormy winter afternoon, the baron looked like a vulture, the skin of his face deeply cragged, his eyes bright and cruel as they skipped from Skinner's face to Fox's and back again.

"I'm choosing a new mount for my daughter, Skinner. Come and tell me what you think." He turned on his heel and strode back to the knot of courtiers, throwing back over his shoulder, "You, too, boy."

With nothing to do but follow, Skinner gripped Fox's wrist for a moment. "Carefully, here, boy. Go very softly." Fox nodded, eyes wide in the gloom, then trailed behind him. The small group of grooms and guards parted before him and Fox followed in his wake, remaining half-shadowed behind his shoulder. The baron stood looking at the pretty picture of his daughter and her new horse. His crippled son Geoffrey, newly risen from his sick bed, was seated in a carry chair beside him, face sullen and pale. Skinner tried very hard not to look at the crushed legs that must be beneath the thick blanket over the young lord's lap. The baron waved an expansive hand toward the horse and said, "Well?"

Skinner carefully looked at the fiery mare who danced and curvetted, tossing her head and arching her neck against the bridle and lead rope held by a groom. He watched the motion of her deep shoulder and her delicate hooves as she fidgeted. She was beautifully formed and her eye appeared intelligent, if a bit wicked. She would be more than a match for the lovely young woman who had her back to him, cooing and stroking her mount's neck. Skinner noted absently that the girl's rich fall of auburn curls was the exact shade of the mare's coat.

"She appears spirited, but a soft hand will gentle her soon enough. She'll be a superb hunter, bold and surefooted. A fine choice, my lord," Skinner said.

The young woman at the mare's shoulder turned and smiled brilliantly at him. "Isn't she lovely, Skinner? She's my birthday gift from Father and Geoffrey. I am seventeen tomorrow."

Skinner couldn't help but smile in return at the happy girl's uncomplicated pleasure. "I wish you many years of health and happiness, Lady Samantha."

There was a sharp gasp from behind him. Before Skinner could stop him, Fox took two quick steps toward the baron's daughter. "Samantha?" he whispered. Skinner and one or two others made abortive movements toward the young upstart, but a single word from the baron stopped them. The dark eyed baron merely watched the two young people with a calculating smile on his face.

At first, Samantha merely stared at Fox, an uncertain smile on her coral lips. But slowly, imperceptibly, her expression crumpled. She held out a shaking hand and Fox gripped it tightly.

"Fox?" she quavered, reaching up to touch his face. He could only nod, his eyes full. Then she was in his arms. Fragments of sentences came to those watching as the two kept pulling back to look at one another, to touch with disbelieving fingers and then to hug each other close again. "You're alive…" "I never dared to hope…" "How…?"

After a time, Samantha pulled him over to the baron, still smiling that ambiguous smile that had Skinner wanting to reach for his sword. "Father?" she asked.

"This is your other birthday gift, my dear. You may thank Skinner for it."

Lady Samantha threw one arm around Skinner's neck, her other hand still gripping her brother's hand. "Thank you, oh thank you!!"

"Skinner?" Fox asked dazedly, eyes shining. Skinner could only shake his head. "I didn't know," he whispered, bewildered. Skinner felt a leaden weight settle in his gut—why was the baron unsurprised by this turn of events?

"Why don't you introduce your brothers to one another, my dear?" the baron suggested. Samantha dragged Fox over to Lord Geoffrey's chair but Skinner was unable to watch their meeting as his lord drew him away.

"Well done, Skinner. I'm impressed. I wasn't certain that the boy could be found."

Skinner felt pummeled by the revelations of the last few minutes. Fox was the man he'd been sent to find? How was it possible? No. He'd been sent to find a minor courtier without a name. Yet the baron seemed grimly amused and secretly pleased by this turn of events. "My lord," he said faintly in response to his praise.

"It pleases me to have all my children under one roof again," he said casually, then turned back to the three young people in the torch light, leaving Skinner cold with shock.

4. In the Baronial Court

Skinner knew he was in trouble.

At first, he attributed his vague feelings of unease to his longer interview with the Baron. From his first days in the Baron's service, he had known that to lie to this man was death, so he admitted quite frankly that he had had no idea who Fox was when he brought him to the city.

"Then why bring him?" the Baron asked, his water pipe gurgling and hissing evilly beside him. It was a habit he had picked up in the foul East and Skinner deeply distrusted the thick ropes of sweet-smelling smoke that wreathed his lord whenever he was at rest in his private study.

"I met the boy working in a tavern and he wanted to come to the city to search for his sister. I liked his conversation well enough, so I brought him along." Outright lies were idiocy, obfuscation merely dangerous. To admit to his lord that Skinner had picked up the baron's bastard son as a bedwarmer would be suicidal.

After a sharp glance, the Baron merely said, "He does talk a lot, doesn't he?", and smiled.

Fox had been in the household a week and was negotiating the change in his fortunes well enough. The restoration of his sister was all that he had craved for so long that the revelation of his paternity seemed to be a minor detail, barely noted in the delight of finding Samantha. Fox had endured the courtly polishing that his father's gentlemen-in-waiting seemed to think indispensable for a baron's son. In silks and velvets, he was a princeling revealed and Skinner cursed his own premonitory fancy that first afternoon in the tavern.

He had kept his distance that week. Every time he saw Fox, Skinner retreated, running as if from the enemy. He told himself firmly that he would think no more of his erstwhile lover, that he wished him well, that Fox had been no more than a month's passing fancy. Skinner lied to himself with firmness of purpose and vigor, knowing that this was the only path of self-preservation. He pretended not to see Fox's questioning glances, the delighted expression that faded to consternation and unhappiness whenever Skinner turned away without speaking, his behavior no different than that of any respectful guard officer toward the baron's newly-recovered son.

But not long after his conversation with the Baron, Skinner found his saddlebags still piled at the foot of his bed. As he emptied them, he steadfastly avoided looking at the small pack that Fox had brought with him. The small leather pack with Fox's carefully hoarded books and the cherished miniature of his sister mocked him silently for a day and a night. Finally, cursing himself for a fool, he snatched it up and went looking for his lord's son. He found him alone in the library, where he spent most of his free time.

"My lord Fox," he said to drag the younger man's attention out of yet another book. The words were hard-edged and unpleasant in his mouth. But the look of true pleasure that brightened Fox's face was a balm. At least until the boy sprang up and tried to embrace him. Skinner held him off with one large hand in the middle of his chest.

"Why?" Fox begged.

"You're the baron's son, my lord," Skinner warned him.

Bitter comprehension flicked through Fox's eyes and settled in a twist on his full lips. "So they tell me. I liked it better when you called me 'boy'." His chest rose and fell once, warm velvet covering the lean muscles beneath Skinner's hand.

"Never again," Skinner said. "Do you understand? The baron must never know."

Fox's hands came up to grip Skinner's wrist. "You're the only friend I have here, Skinner." He suddenly seemed lost and too young for the viper's nest of baronial politics into which Skinner had unknowingly thrust him.

Skinner pulled free and took a step back. "You have found your family again, my lord. Surely there's comfort in that."

Fox's lips twisted again and his voice was hard when he spoke. "Cold comfort, Skinner, to discover that the father I mourned was no more than a drunken cuckold, my mother unfaithful and my true father a man who weaves webs of intrigue that would scare spiders into fits. Ah, and now I have a younger brother who hates me for supplanting him as heir in my father's machinations. Truly, a wealth of comfort. I almost wonder if I weren't happier hauling beer in that tavern. And taking up with leather-clad strangers on cold evenings," he added acidly.

For one chilling moment, he sounded like a younger version of his father. Skinner blinked, unable to argue with Fox's description of his new life, harsh though it was. Despite the baron's careful maneuverings and unprecedented gentle treatment of his newly-returned offspring, he had been unable to dissemble before his sharp-witted elder son. Skinner finally seized on the one crumb of comfort he could offer.

"But you have your sister again, my lord."

At that, Fox's bitter expression softened. "That I do. And she is all that I could want in a sister—loving and gentle and good. She knows nothing of our father's plans, I think. He protects her well." Fox ran his hands through his hair. "I don't know all of the baron's plans yet, Skinner. But Geoffrey does and, until recently, he played a major role in them. Now, I have supplanted him, merely because I can still sit a horse and fence. I think that it will not be too long before he starts moving against me, because, no matter how crippled his body is, his mind remains as agile as it ever was. And he is merely a younger version of our father."

"Fox…" But Skinner didn't know what he meant to say.

Fox's look turned pleading. "I just want you to hold me again, as you used to. Just for a moment. Is it too much to ask?"

There was nothing Skinner could do. That yearning look on Fox's face nearly broke him and he was in motion before he knew it.

He fled.

At first, he had thought that the spying mission he was sent on not long after that evening was a gift in disguise, taking him away from the dangerous temptation of the baron's son. But he nearly died that night when a comrade who should have been protecting Skinner's back was inexplicably missing until the fight was over. Skinner thought no more about it until the next time it happened. And then again.

Three times in as many months, he had been left alone to fight for his life by comrades with whom he had campaigned for years.

He finally knew when he and two others were ambushed by brigands on a quiet road and his companions, excellent riders both, were suddenly unhorsed and lay stunned in the dirt until the fighting was over. When neither man would meet his eyes, Skinner left them there beside the bodies and rode back to the castle wondering if there were any avenues left open to him.

Three months since he had seen Fox alone or heard his voice. Three months since he had touched him. Three months since he had spurned him and told him that the baron must never know. Riding back alone, in the cold and the dark, Skinner wondered if blood had finally begun to tell. The attacks were more subtle than the baron's usual approach; perhaps they were Fox's way of revenging himself upon Skinner. Even as his heart recoiled at the thought of the sad, sweet young tavern boy he had taken becoming such a man, he recalled that bitter twist to Fox's lips that afternoon in the library, the palest ghost of his father showing through.

"No," he whispered, wanting very much to not believe it.

5. The Attack

Skinner was careless, he knew that and regretted it in the single instant between closing the door and knowing that he wasn't alone. In the next moment, a hand came out of the dark and shoved him back against the door. The cool touch of a blade against his throat held him motionless. A clever hand quickly divested him of his weapons, even the small 'last resort' dagger he kept between his shoulder-blades. When he tensed, the phantom hand suddenly slapped him hard, knocking his head back against the door and dazing him. When the stars cleared from his vision, a lamp had been lit and he could see the man who held his own sword pointed at him.

"Fox?" he husked, shaking away the last of the dazzle.

Those light eyes regarded him coolly. "Lord Fox," he corrected coldly.

Skinner's eyes dropped to the blade, judging his chances of getting it away from the boy. He concluded that they weren't very good—Fox had been studying with one of the best sword masters in the barony and he had apparently been an apt pupil in this as in all other things. His grip was light and sure and his weight was well-distributed; he was ready for a fight. Skinner couldn't see any way of disarming him without one or both of them getting hurt.

"What do you want?" He tried to keep his voice calm and reassuring. He had seen the look in Fox's eyes before, on other men. Desperate men, pushed to the wall, looked like this. Skinner wondered if he was going to die at Fox's hand finally.

"I want to know why you did it."

The sneer on those full lips was wrong, jarring. It didn't belong there. No, there should be a shy smile just beginning to curve them, they should be slightly swollen, from being kissed and bitten, they should be smoothed by a thumb running lightly, lovingly over them again and again…Skinner closed his eyes, wrenching his thoughts away from that; he could never have it again, it was pointless to think of it.

"Why I did what?" he asked, confused.

"Why you brought me here the way you did. Why you didn't tell me the truth. Was it amusing for you, knowing you had the baronial heir kneeling at your feet every night?" The pain in that rich voice cut Skinner more deeply than any blade ever had.

"I didn't know…Fox, I swear, I didn't know."

"Did it make you feel good, hearing my father's son begging you to touch him, wanting nothing more than to be able to feel you beside him in the night? Do you really hate him that much? Did you hate me that much?"

"It wasn't like that, Fox. I didn't know who you were; I thought you were just some tavern boy…" Too late, he realized his mistake and stopped abruptly.

"I don't believe you." The words cracked like ice on the river. "Which was it, Skinner? Were you getting back at the baron by using his son like a cheap alehouse whore or did you pick up a cheap alehouse whore to keep as a pet?"

Skinner could only shake his head, staring wordlessly into Fox's eyes, willing him to believe him. Finally, he whispered, "It wasn't like that."

"Then what was it, Skinner? Shall I show you?" The ice in Fox's eyes cracked in a rush of hot anger. He threw the sword away from him and strode forward to yank Skinner away from the door. Pivoting, he shoved the dazed and unresisting man into a chair. Kicking Skinner's legs apart, Fox dropped to his knees between them and reached for the closure on Skinner's breeches. When Skinner clumsily tried to grab for his hands, the younger man snarled and seized his wrists, slamming them onto the arms of the chair. Eyes blazing, he hissed, "This is how it was, Skinner, remember?"

Skinner remembered. He was hard and hot and aching for Fox and the first touch of his hands on his cock drove all thought of resistance out of his mind. When he slid past the heated silk of Fox's lips, he was lost. All of his suspicion and mistrust boiled away in the burning of the moment.

He sighed, "Boy…," and let one hand tangle in Fox's smooth hair, fondling him as he had so often. Fox tipped his head slightly into the caress and made a soft noise. He reached up to clasp the hand that still lay on the arm of the chair; their fingers laced together in a strong grip.

Later, lying in pain and darkness, Skinner would remember that there had been some small sound in the corridor to warn them, but he was too far gone, drowning in sweet fire, to react. And so they were surrounded and he was seized by the baron's personal guard without throwing a single blow.

The baron regarded him coldly for long moments before he spoke. His voice was calm, controlled, but Skinner had been in his service long enough to hear death in his words. "Did you think I didn't know, Skinner? Did you really think I would let this pass?"

"Father," Fox said miserably, hanging in the grips of the three guardsmen it had taken to restrain him.

"Shut up!" The baron spared one furious look at his bastard son before turning his attention back to his captured prey.

"Let him go, Father, I was the one…,"

At a signal from the baron, one of the guards restraining Skinner dealt him a heavy blow to his gut. Skinner doubled over and fell to his knees. Dimly he could make out Fox's protesting shout, then the chill voice of his master.

"Every time you speak, he will suffer for it. Do you understand, Fox?"

Fox said nothing, but when Skinner had recovered enough to look up again, he could see the fury burning in his young lover. It gave him a crumb of comfort to know that Fox cared that much for him, at least. He knew now that Fox had never tried nor even wanted to harm him. His suspicions had been unfounded and so wrong.

Skinner looked directly into the young man's eyes and said, "I'm sorry." Even as the kicks and blows began, he wished he had some other words for him, something to give him. But the darkness overtook him before he could think what they ought to be.

6. The Dungeon

He wasn't going to die quickly, that much he knew now. No, he had sinned too deeply against the baron for that and it seemed that now his lord would unleash some of his more creative minions. Skinner's punishment would serve as a warning to others contemplating disobedience for years to come.

The beatings and the flogging had been straight-forward and he had borne them without a sound, even as the blood ran down his ribs and arms. He had passed out twice, only to be awakened by the icy burn of seawater poured over his wounds. But when he had awakened the second time, hanging in irons, he knew they had only been the prelude to the real suffering in store for him. The baron had been before him.

"It would have been much more convenient if you had actually died when you were supposed to have, Skinner," the baron commented, surveying his wounds with a professional detachment.

"Sorry to have discommoded you, my lord," Skinner said, licking at the blood from his split lip. The backhanded blow he was dealt was barely noticeable amongst the rest of his hurts and only served to rock his head back so that he could see him tormentor more clearly.

"Do you know what you've done? Do you have any idea the carefully-laid plans you've destroyed because you couldn't keep your hands off something that wasn't meant for you?" Skinner watched spittle gather at the corners of the baron's mouth as he became more enraged. "Do you have any idea what you've done?!"

/Yes/, Skinner thought, too tired to speak. /I know now. I loved him. For two, maybe three weeks, I had him and I loved him./

"It wasn't long enough," he whispered aloud.

"What?!"

"I'm sorry," Skinner said to Fox once more.

"You only think you are now," the Baron snarled, "but you will come to know the meaning of the word. You can write your apology on your own skin. Flenser says he's looking forward to working from a canvas as large as yours."

Flenser. The name cut through Skinner's fog. His specialty involved the artistic removal of skin from living flesh and living flesh from bone. He had joined the Baron's employ after Skinner and so had had to take a different sword-name, a fact that still rankled. Flenser's personal best had kept a prisoner alive for five days while thin slices of his skin were peeled in one continuous strip. Skinner despised the twisted man and the two were sworn enemies. Given over into Flenser's hands, Skinner had little doubt that his death would become suffering of epic proportions.

The baron's voice hissed like acid. "Perhaps I'll have my son watch him at work. The boy needs some exposure to the harsher realities of ruling."

It broke him. He had no idea when they left him alone finally, taking the last guttering torch and leaving him to weep weakly in the dark.

The dreams came later to torment him. They tangled in the roaring of the waves outside the walls, the thin howl of the wind, the cold and the misery that had become almost muted in their unchanging constancy. He dreamed that Fox hung beside him, chained to the wall, screaming as Flenser grinned in anticipation. Skinner twisted and struggled and howled his rage and there was nothing he could do but watch as the beauty and fire of his lover were cut to tatters before him. Finally, there was nothing to do except contemplate the dripping shreds that hung before him and whisper his litany /I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry/.

"Shh. I know. There's no time for that now."

He jerked and heard his chains rattle mockingly in the darkness. "Oh, Fox, I'm sorry," he whispered into the dark, wishing he could see the light one more time.

He had to blink twice before he realized that he was seeing light. And then that soft voice came from beside him again. "Don't move, I don't want to hurt you."

When he turned his head painfully to the right, there was Fox, struggling to unlock the heavy iron manacle around his wrist. Skinner shook his head, not at all comforted by the vision of his lover here amidst the blood and cold. When he opened his eyes again, Fox was still there, swearing viciously under his breath as the key slipped in his fingers again.

"What are you doing?" Skinner asked in a cracked whisper.

"Trying to rescue you. Now will you shut up and let me work?"

"Oh," Skinner said and lapsed into silence. Perhaps this vision was preferable to the one in which he saw Fox tortured to death. This one, at least allowed him to focus on those fine, disturbingly intelligent eyes as they studied a problem. They looked too liquid to be the way he remembered them…then he realized that Fox was crying silently. He had never seen the boy cry, why would he imagine it? Then he realized that it was no vision.

"Get out of here," he tried to snap and could only wheeze.

"As soon as I get you out of these."

The right-hand manacle snapped open and Skinner's arm dropped like lead. Fox gave a grunt of satisfaction and moved to the other arm. The building agony in his newly-freed arm distracted Skinner from his insistence that Fox leave here immediately. By the time he gathered enough of himself together to speak around the fire in his muscles, his other arm was in shrieking agony from its release and Fox was slipping an arm around him and urging him to his feet.

"Get out of here," he ordered again in a rasping whisper.

"Only if you come, too."

Skinner was so far gone that he started to try to walk, just to get Fox to leave behind the horror that would soon be here. He was distantly grateful that they had not yet broken his feet. Fox's encouraging murmurs and the strong arms around his waist helped him to stagger to the door of the cell, now hanging open.

Once outside the room, Fox let him lean against the cold stone wall while he rummaged in a pack on the floor. The lip of a flask was shoved between his teeth and a burning draught forced down his throat before he was aware. Quick fire raced through him and his senses seemed to snap back to him with the first swallow. The taste was familiar now—oleth, a powerful stimulant. Unfortunately, as it restored him, what had been the muted chorus of suffering now became separate sharply defined agonies in his shoulders, arms, various cuts and bruises along his chest and on his head.

He groaned and Fox looked up from where he was once again rummaging in the bag on the floor. Tears and sweat streaked his dirty face; the rich tunic he had been wearing was torn and his hair was matted. He had never been more beautiful to Skinner.

Fox opened his mouth to speak, then looked down again and pulled a thin silk tabard out of the pack. It must have been part of the rich wardrobe the baron had given him; Skinner had never worn anything so fine in his life. Fox ignored Skinner's weak protests as he dropped the expensive spidersilk material over the older man's head and carefully draped it over his bloody chest and back. "It'll be easier on those open wounds than linen," he said briefly, then passed a long silken cord around Skinner's hips and bound the cloth lightly around him. He pulled a pair of Skinner's old boots from the pack and knelt to pull them on, checking briefly at Skinner's grunts of pain, but not stopping until his task was done.

When he straightened, his face was pale and his eyes burned, but his voice was tolerably steady. "Can you walk?"

"Not far, but enough to get out of here."

"Good. I've got your horse saddled. You just have to get to the seawall door." Skinner nodded and heaved himself away from the wall. He swayed for a moment, until a strong arm slipped under his shoulder and held him firm.

"Fox…"

"Save it," his young lover snapped. "Let's get the hell out of here before those guards come to."

7. The Escape

Stairs. There were four hundred and twenty five shallow stone stairs from the dungeons to the upper level and Skinner felt every single one of them counting coup in his broken ribs, his bruised gut, his tortured muscles, his bloody back. His head swam and his breath came in gasps, but he kept stubbornly putting one foot in front of the other, refusing Fox's offers to rest at every stair turning.

Number four hundred and nineteen. Four hundred and twenty. Skinner had almost started to believe that they might actually make it when they heard Geoffrey say,

"Well, brother, there's not much left of him to save, is there? I wonder you took the trouble."

And there he sat, on the landing, his carry-chair framed in the arch of the doorway to the south garden. He had four guards with him. Skinner felt Fox's jerk of shock, but his voice was tolerably controlled when he replied,

"He'll heal, in time."

Geoffrey shook his head. "I don't think he has that time, brother Fox." Geoffrey waved one of the guards forward. Skinner wearily raised his head and recognized his friend Candler. Slowly he straightened and looked into Candler's eyes, then nodded once. On a good day, he and Candler were about evenly matched; Candler was more agile, but Skinner had more endurance. In his current condition, there was no hope. At least Candler would let him die quickly, bravely in battle as a warrior should, not screaming beneath Flenser's blades. He felt a flicker of gratitude as he drew Fox's dagger from his belt and turned to face his opponent.

Fox stepped in front of him and said, "No." Then he looked up at his brother and said calmly,

"Let him go, Geoffrey. He's no threat to you. If you want the succession, all you need is me. Let him go. Please."

"Fox—don't be an idiot!" Skinner hissed, trying to dredge up enough energy to move his younger lover out of the way. Fox stood firm and Skinner was forced to hold onto those broad shoulders for support as his head swam.

"I'm dead either way, Skinner. The only thing in question here is whether or not you survive me. Isn't that right, brother Geoffrey?"

"Essentially, yes." Geoffrey looked intrigued by the tableau in front of him. "You know, Fox, I didn't really think you had it in you. I admit, I'm impressed."

"Let him go, Geoffrey. He doesn't need to be another pawn sacrificed to Father's games."

Skinner's hands tightened on Fox's shoulders but the young man said nothing and gave no sign as he held his brother's gaze. Something flickered in Geoffrey's eyes, then he nodded and said,

"There have been too many of those already."

"There are horses saddled and ready at the south water gate. Get him there; that's all I ask."

"What's to keep me from killing him after I've killed you?"

Fox smiled sadly. "We may be enemies, Geoffrey, but I've never seen you go back on a sworn oath. I trust you to keep your word."

Geoffrey nodded, waved Candler forward to help Skinner. Skinner pushed away from Fox and stood on his own, dagger in hand. "I'm not leaving without Fox." Candler stopped, unwilling to come within blade range of his former comrade.

Fox grabbed the front of his tabard and shook him, nearly knocking him off his feet. "I'm trying to save your life, you idiot!"

"Who asked you to, boy?" Skinner's mouth twisted for a moment, then he raised an unsteady hand and brushed his thumb across Fox's lower lip. "Not without you," he said quietly.

"You'll die here," Fox whispered, eyes liquid again.

"It'll be quick," Skinner soothed him.

"Excuse me," Geoffrey's smooth tenor voice cut in with a hint of mocking courtesy. "Did you say "horses", Fox? How many?"

Confused, it took Fox a moment to pull himself away from Skinner's gaze. He turned to look at his brother. "Two saddle horses and a packhorse."

"Let me get this straight—you were planning on going with him?"

Bewildered, Fox only nodded.

"You were going to leave here with a half-dead guardsman and two horses and not come back?"

His brother nodded again and knit his brows when Geoffrey began laughing loudly and slapping one hand against a wasted leg.

"Would you care to share the joke?" Fox asked, an edge to his tone.

Geoffrey finally calmed himself, although tears of mirth sparkled in his eyes when he looked down at them. "It's just that I seem to have a talent for getting in my own way. If I had merely stood aside and let you leave, my entire problem would be solved. Instead, I plot and plan and agonize about becoming a fratricide, pay enormous amounts in bribes to these excellent soldiers and all I had to do was give you a horse!"

Skinner's sight was washed with gray for a moment and when he was next aware, he was draped over Candler's sturdy shoulders and they were moving through the darkness. Somewhere off to his left, he could hear the distant whisper of the surf over the wind. Much closer, he could hear Fox speaking quietly with his brother as he walked beside the carry-chair.

"And now I won't have to lie to Samantha and tell her I had nothing to do with your death," he heard Geoffrey say with real relief in his voice. For the first time, Skinner almost liked the heir apparent.

"Will you tell her I love her and that I had to go?" Fox asked hesitantly.

"Yes, brother."

"And you'll take care of her? Don't let her know what Father is…"

"I always have, Fox."

They passed through the iron grill of the south garden water gate. Skinner could hear the stamp of a horse's hoof and the whicker of his own mount as it caught his scent. Candler lowered him carefully to his feet and steadied him while the pain washed through him. When it passed, he stood straight. Candler handed him a sheathed sword with a belt wrapped around it and a small pouch heavy with coin. Then he gripped Skinner's forearm and said, "Good luck."

In the dim light cast by one swathed lantern, Skinner watched as Geoffrey pulled the rings from his fingers and a pouch from his belt, then handed it all to Fox. "You'll need some money. Go in peace, brother." His voice hardened. "I don't ever want to see you again. The next time we meet, one of us will die."

Fox stared at the jewels and money in his hands, tucked them into his pack and then said only, "Goodbye, Geoffrey."

He untethered the horses and fixed the lead of the packhorse and his own saddle mount to the saddle of Skinner's horse. He swung up into Skinner's saddle, then held out an arm for Skinner to grip. Candler gave him a knee up and he clumsily slid into the saddle in front of Fox. He was wrapped in a fur-lined cloak and could barely lift his arms to help arrange it. The pain was a sheet of white lightning across his vision and he leaned heavily against Fox, whose arms were around his waist as he gripped the reins. Another flask was forced between his teeth; this time, he swallowed the brandy eagerly, hoping for the numbing it would bring.

"Let's get out of here," he gasped when he could speak. Fox tightened his grip slightly, then touched his heels to the horse's flanks.

"Where will you go?" Geoffrey's voice came out of the dark as the horses began to move down the path to the beach.

"Home," Fox said into the night, then there was nothing more but the sound of horses hooves and the wind slithering over the sand and the constant grumble of the surf.

"The tavern? Or your mother's manor?" Skinner asked thickly, the brandy beginning to make itself felt. The horses had settled into an easy canter on the firm sand and the pain in his side had eased.

"Neither," Fox laughed shortly. "I was thinking a little further north. Somewhere in the mountains…a quiet hut…by a lake, perhaps. Somewhere a man could hunt and trap and not be bothered by anyone except those he brought with him."

Skinner heard his own dream quoted back to him and smiled drowsily as he slid into sleep. "Would you bring me?" he dimly remembered a half-washed boy in a hayloft asking. "If you promise not to talk so much," Fox whispered in his ear, his smile plain in his voice. And Skinner fell asleep in his arms, half-dead, on the run and at peace with the world in a way he had not been since he had been a small boy.