by R. D. Hero
His face was flushed, his lips spread in a wide grin.
The steward of Maskatawn, or Moskeown, or whatever it was, was flat on his ass, his palm raised as he admitted defeat. He had gone down quite easily against the force of Raleigh's longsword. Feeling generous, Raleigh reached down and clasped his hand, helping him to his feet, and he nodded his thanks.
"Well done," Frederick said from across the great hall. He was sitting at the main table, chin resting on his knuckles.
Raleigh bowed his head, and the steward did as well. There was a light round of clapping from the audience—the court regulars, as well as the guests who had come especially for the winter games. A fire was roaring in the massive fireplace, and a quartet of minstrels was playing some pleasant, unobtrusive melody. Overall, the mood since the start of the games that evening had been festive.
And this had been Raleigh's second bout, as well as his second win. His chest was squared as he walked back to his place at the main table, next to Frederick.
"Cousin," Frederick said, glancing at Raleigh from the corner of his eye. "It does seem as if you are enjoying yourself."
Raleigh merely curled his lip with amusement as he sat down. His attention was more focused on the match following his.
Frederick seemed to follow his gaze, and then laughed softly. "Of course. Heed no mind to me; there is something far more captivating afoot."
"Yes, indeed," Raleigh rumbled.
Moshe had stepped out into the middle of the room, his thin lips set in a concentrated frown. In front of him was a knight from Frederick's own guard, who was only slightly more bulky than Moshe. They both would be considered too small if brandishing longswords, but they were holding padded rapiers. Raleigh could see how pleased Moshe was with having a near doppelganger as an opponent, even if the man had to be at least ten winters younger.
"Here comes The Whip," Frederick said, settling back in his chair.
Raleigh grinned, placing a curled fist hard on the table as he leaned forward.
The bell clanged, and Moshe struck forward, the knight just barely jumping out of range in time. Raleigh saw a brief flash of shock on Moshe's face. It was definitely the sudden realization that it had been some time since he had sparred with a worthy opponent. Then his expression leveled again.
What came next was a flurry of movements. Raleigh tracked each thrust and dodge, his heart thundering, heat pooling fast in his groin.
Moshe was beautiful. He was vicious.
Raleigh exhaled a heavy breath, shifting in his chair as his arousal started to ache. He wiped at his mouth, half-paranoid that he had started drooling when he was bowled over with the memories of watching Moshe fight, of wanting him and wanting to defeat him, and all the prizes that lay in wait from doing that.
Gazing about the room, Raleigh took note of the way the court was watching Moshe as well, the way that he captivated them with his calculated and measured movements. Pride swelled in his chest, making his exhale with pure pleasure. Sitting back, he said to Frederick, "How are you training your men these days? The poor lad looks like he's been set upon by a hornet's nest."
Frederick chuckled, but it was with a wry edge. "Indeed."
"I mean no insult, of course," Raleigh continued, feeling more impervious with each failed swing the knight took at Moshe.
Frederick merely chuckled. Raleigh knew he was amused by Raleigh's obvious and, frankly, unseemly pride in Moshe, but there was nothing to be done. Or rather, Raleigh could not bring himself to care. Not when Moshe shone like a light in the middle of the great hall, earning his moniker over and over with his whip-like speed. The knight himself appeared in awe, which was not to his advantage but proved to be quite comical.
The knight fell, and the bell clanged.
Moshe looked to Raleigh. His eyes were bright. He was panting, his cheeks flushed. And when Raleigh pounded his fist on the table while roaring his approval—Moshe's lips cracked into the widest grin.
It took a moment, but he finally broke eye contact with Raleigh to help the knight back up to his feet. They bowed together towards the head table, and then stood straight, wiping the sweat from their brows. "I had a feeling my knight would enjoy sparring with him," Frederick said, tilting his head towards Raleigh, "but his eyes nearly rolled to the back of head when I told him he would be doing so."
Raleigh snorted. "That is admirable. Most men would have pissed themselves."
With a laugh Frederick replied, "Yes, most men seemed to have the good sense not to run headlong into his blade as you did, Raleigh."
"As I do now," Raleigh said. The first tendrils of apprehension began to curl through his chest as he realized the time to face Moshe had arrived.
He stood slowly, knowing that the entire court was watching him. Moshe remained at the center, but a servant had come and taken his rapier. When Raleigh went to stand in front of him, he was still grinning—which Raleigh returned with a smile of his own. "You have fought well today, Moshe."
"As have you," Moshe replied.
Nodding, Raleigh waited for the swords to be brought out. When he saw that it was the longswords, he glanced at Moshe. "I see luck is on my side."
Moshe snorted. "Perhaps."
They each took a sword, and then stepped back from each other several paces. Raleigh was conscious of how silent the hall had become, and he could feel every gaze on him. Drawing in a long breath, he told himself to let all of that fall away until all that was left was Moshe.
Indeed, all he could see was Moshe.
The bell clanged. Moshe darted forward. Raleigh easily parried the attack. "Too slow," he laughed.
The delight that flashed in Moshe's eyes made Raleigh's heart skip a beat.
"It is good to see you smile," Moshe said.
Raleigh's lips parted. But then Moshe shot forward again, like a snake striking, and Raleigh moved to block him. He stumbled forward when Moshe merely ducked under his arm and swerved behind him. "Shit," Raleigh muttered, turning, bracing against Moshe's next strike just in time. Their swords slammed together with a dull thud from the padding. They strained against each other, Moshe's face tilted up and Raleigh bowed down, their hot, panted breaths mingling between them.
"You are quite the silvertongue, aren't you?" Raleigh said.
Moshe let out a tight chuckle. It was clear he was having trouble struggling against Raleigh's superior brute strength, his arms trembling. "Only someone as dull-witted as you would think so."
Grinning at that, Raleigh shoved forward with all his strength, intending to knock Moshe on his ass, but Moshe rolled with the blow, and then slid back around behind Raleigh again.
He heard the audience gasp, but once again he was able to turn in time and block Moshe's sword. Blood pumping, a loud roar in his ears, Raleigh narrowed his eyes on Moshe—on his prey—seeing all at once the young boy who snubbed him continuously, the teenage brat who would flirt with knights just to pique Raleigh's ire, and the man who smiled at Raleigh after having been defeated for the thousandth time, and finally said yes.
The man who had finally admitted, late in the night, that he shivered whenever Raleigh was near, had watched him endlessly. When everyone else expected Moshe to be brutal and fearsome, he had yearned for the pleasure of obedience in Raleigh's arms.
Fueled by memories, Raleigh slammed forward viciously—he had to defeat Moshe, he had to prove—
Sharp pain. Raleigh gasped.
Moshe must have seen the way Raleigh's face froze as he was taking his swing. Raleigh's knee buckled just as he tried to block the blow, but he had no strength left. He crashed down onto his knees, losing his grip on the sword.
The bell clanged, almost covering up Moshe's distressed "Raleigh!"
Raleigh kept his eyes closed, his teeth clenched. His fingers were digging into his palms as he tried to ride through the pain.
Suddenly, he felt hands grip his shoulders, and he jerked. But then thumbs started to slowly rub against tense muscles, and he opened
his eyes to look up at Moshe's face, the sharp concern in those brilliant green eyes. When Moshe reached up to brush at Raleigh's cheek, he realized he was crying.
"Raleigh …" Moshe said so softly, too quietly for the court to hear.
"I love you," Raleigh replied. Moshe opened his mouth, but then Raleigh let out a tight, pained breath, his chest constricting. He dropped his head. "I couldn't save us."
The grip on his shoulders froze. Moshe's fingers dug in painfully. Raleigh looked up with a jerk to see Moshe glaring at him with pure fury. "You—" Moshe choked out, swallowed, and then said, "Damn you, you fucking bastard."
With that, he shoved at Raleigh, backing away from him before turning and kicking the sword stand—all the blades clattering to the floor—as he strode out of the main hall.
*~*~*
"We had a good harvest, you see—that's why I felt content leaving the peasants to handle themselves. Of course, I do worry, if something to go wrong while I was gone and the roads were blocked …"
Raleigh, sunk low in his chair, murmured in reply to the baron he was seated next to. Rather than rejoining Frederick at the head table, he had slunk off to a far corner of the hall. The duels had ended for the night, and the feasting had begun. But all Raleigh could do was poke lethargically at the meats and cheeses laid out in front of him.
Thankfully, after Moshe had left, Frederick had quickly indicated to the servants to keep the wine and mead flowing. While the duels continued, the volume of cries and speaking in the hall rose conspicuously with each refilled glass in every reveler's hand. Their mirth only served to further Raleigh's spiral into self-loathing.
"And what about you, Lord Raleigh?" the baron asked loudly over the noise, obviously making an effort. He had looked quite pale when Raleigh had sat next to him after duel, and perhaps felt obligated to quell the awkward tension—not that Raleigh believed anyone felt uncomfortable. The court was all quite entertained with his and Moshe's antics. They always had been.
"What about me?" Raleigh replied gruffly.
"How is Chaylain fairing?"
"Chaylain can handle herself as well," Raleigh said, taking a sip of his mead. "They are mountain people, well adapted to the winter, and very quiet throughout." He glanced at the baron with a tired smile. "Like bears. They cause trouble during the warm seasons."
"Indeed?" the baron replied.
Just then, Raleigh heard a slight shift in the conversations around him. He looked up immediately to see Moshe walking back into the hall. He was out of his fighting garb, and instead was adorned a southern outfit—high brocade collar, stiff shoulders, gold trim all along the forest green silk. Raleigh clenched his jaw, close to grumbling. Although he enjoyed how these costumes lay open as they did, leaving a coy strip of the wearer's chest bear, he was always discomforted when Moshe wore them to court.
"Ah," the baron said, "does your husband often return to his homeland?"
Raleigh's lips thinned. "Occasionally." Nothing soured his mood more than talk of Moshe's "home," when his true home was Chaylain.
A cold dose of realization hit Raleigh all at once, however, at the baron's words. Was this some sort of sign? Some cruel way of Moshe telling Raleigh that he was leaving for the south? Raleigh stared at Moshe, trying to discern where his mood was.
He was sitting next to Frederick, smiling. He had purposely chosen not to sit next to Raleigh, an insult that sank deep in Raleigh’s chest.
All thoughts of the south flew away. Raleigh sat up straight, gripping his hand into a fist on the table as he watched Moshe speak so animatedly with Frederick—laying a hand on Frederick's arm.
Exhaling, Raleigh told himself to calm. He had no right to this jealousy …
Moshe laughed at something Frederick said, and then leaned in to whisper a reply into his ear.
Raleigh shot up, his chair clattering back. He heard the baron say "oh my," as he stalked all the way along the table up towards the dais where the head table sat. As he did, Moshe continued to speak with Frederick, not turning his head at all. When Raleigh reached him, he barely even looked up.
Pausing, hesitating, Raleigh stood there. Moshe continued to ignore him.
"Moshe," he said.
Finally glancing at Raleigh with a flat expression, Moshe said, "Yes?"
"May we speak outside?" Raleigh replied, his voice tight.
Moshe smiled. "No," he said. He turned back to Frederick, leaning in close to him. He had the gall to scoot from Raleigh, to slide a hand onto Frederick's shoulder.
Close to shaking, Raleigh dropped a palm on the table to loom over Moshe, and said into his ear, "You are humiliating me, husband. In front of the court."
Moshe glanced at him with narrowed eyes. "Do I care?"
At that, Raleigh snapped. He grabbed Moshe's arm and dragged him up.
In the next instant, Moshe slapped him right across the cheek.
There were some low gasps, and several chuckles, and from behind Moshe, Raleigh could see Frederick considering him with raised eyebrows—then Frederick turned away, lifting his glass to his lips as he said to the man on his other side, "And that is a household with no head." The other man laughed.
Raleigh's gaze moved from them to Moshe's face, and he saw the cruel, mocking smirk there—saw the challenge.
An intense flash of rage shocked him, but then Raleigh's lips spread into a smile of his own. "I've tolerated enough shameless disobedience from you," Raleigh said.
Moshe opened his mouth. Raleigh could just hear the biting retort, but it never came because Raleigh bent, grabbed Moshe, and lifted him over his shoulder. The surprised gasp was pleasing to Raleigh's ear, but he was most likely the only one to hear over the roar of laughing and jeering that had started up.
Ignoring the court of drunks, Raleigh looked down at Frederick. "You shouldn't encourage this childishness from Moshe, cousin. It only ends up worse for him in the long run."
"You bastard," Moshe said against his back, and it sounded so breathless. Raleigh simply patted his ass in reply.
Frederick shook his head, laughing. "Then keep your house in line, Raleigh."
Nodding at that, Raleigh turned and headed for the doorway of the main hall, Moshe attempting to squirm away from him the entire time. He could feel the court's eyes on him, all of the people witnessing who, at the end of the day, held authority at Chaylain. A few called out with humor, bidding Moshe to just give up; he had never been able to escape Raleigh before.
Raleigh's knee ached with an endless thrum, occasional bursts of sharp pain taking his breath away, but he kept walking.
Moshe was silent except for a few occasional grunts as he struggled while they headed down the hall towards their chambers. When his elbow landed with a pointed blow against Raleigh's back, Raleigh spanked him harshly.
Gasping, Moshe stilled. Raleigh did it again just to be clear, and he heard Moshe curse.
Kicking their door open, he shoved it closed again and went to their bed. He flipped Moshe forward over his shoulder, watching as he plopped down on the furs, his eyes wide and his cheeks flushed.
Breathing heavily, Raleigh observed him. And then Moshe launched a kick straight at Raleigh, his booted foot slamming into Raleigh's gut.
With a grunt, Raleigh grabbed Moshe's ankle and dragged him on to his back, forcing him to bend his knee towards his body, and Raleigh crowded over him, one palm braced on the mattress, the other still clutching Moshe's leg. He leaned in close, their noses almost touching, and stared straight into Moshe's eyes. "Are you finished?"
"I am so angry at you," Moshe replied. His voice was shaking.
"Then what was that show for?" Raleigh replied. "If not to have me drag you from the hall like some brute."
"Not about that!" Moshe snapped, slamming his fists against Raleigh's chest. "You have made me so lonely for too long."
Raleigh paused at that, at the hurt on Moshe's face. It matched the pain in his own chest. "I did not mean to," he said, the words coming out a
s a croak.
"And you have given up on us!" Moshe continued, tears pricking at his eyes.
"No …" Raleigh murmured, his expression crumpling, never having felt so miserable. It was an odd thing, having Moshe trapped beneath him, smelling his scent and seeing his face, but thinking Raleigh had no right to any of that. "I just can't … The thought of you leaving me has made me such a coward ..."
Moshe looked struck. "Why would I leave you?"
"Because you want a man who doesn't fear you, who can bring you to your knees …" Swallowing, Raleigh summoned the courage to admit his fears. "I can't beat you anymore, Moshe. Not with swords, not with racing, or anything else."
"Raleigh …" Moshe said, reaching up to palm Raleigh's cheek. "It would have been wearisome to keep that up forever. I never expected it."
"But I grow too weak to stand sometimes," Raleigh continued, for once wanting Moshe to know the true breadth of his feelings. "I cannot—will not have you take care of me. My pride—"
A thumb curled around his ear, Moshe staring straight up at him. "Then earn your pride back." Slowly shifting, raising his knees up on each side of Raleigh, he continued, "Each time you fall, each time I must help you up, I will anticipate your recourse."
Raleigh smiled, the affection he felt for Moshe swelling beyond reason. "You will bear my wounded ego?"
Smirking wickedly at that, Moshe replied, "I always have."
Leaning down, Raleigh pressed a feather-light kiss upon Moshe's lips, reaching back to slide a hand up the back of his thigh, lifting him slightly so that he and Raleigh could rub against each other. Crawling further onto the bed, sliding Moshe with him, he sat up, straddling Moshe, and started to unlace his tunic.
Moshe watched Raleigh and licked his lips.
"I am still stronger than you, you know," Raleigh said, his voice a low rumble.
"Yes, you are, my love," Moshe replied, his eyes flashing. "Strong enough to carry me over your shoulder."
"That's right," Raleigh said, dropping back down, gripping Moshe's arms and pinning him to the bed. He released one arm and slid his hand up Moshe's belly, feeling the smooth skin and watching avidly as each inch was revealed to him. He took a moment to rub a thumb over Moshe's nipple, looking back up at him.
