He blinked rapidly. It was the only sign of the pain he allowed himself to show.
“Do you have any children, warrior? Do you want to have children? Of course, King William doesn’t allow a knight to take a wife…does he? So, it won’t matter if I make you impotent.” She stepped back and looked him up and down. “It will be a shame, though. A waste of such a good specimen.”
Circling him, she laid her hand on his shoulder and rose up to whisper in his ear. “You know how my questions will start. Why are you here? What is your mission? Let me know when you are ready to answer them.”
She shortened the chain between his wrists and his collar, pulling his hands higher and twisting his arms until they threatened to dislocate from his shoulders.
“I’ll leave you alone, for a while.”
The soldiers retrieved the torches and followed the Queen out of the room and then he heard the door close. He was alone again, in the cold, in total darkness, his restraints even more brutal than before. The weights hanging from the chain drove the teeth of the clamps deeper into his flesh and he felt blood trickle down his chest. The metal cage clenched his cock like a fist and the wooden blocks crushed his balls mercilessly.
He closed his eyes with a sigh.
He’d always dreamed of meeting Queen Gracelyn, but not like this. Ever since the first time he’d seen her, almost a decade ago, when there was peace between Westmoorland and Cambridge.
The young warrior watched the procession approach the castle gates and felt a curious quivering in his stomach. He’d only been a squire for a few months, but he had heard the other men talk about the young Queen Gracelyn of Cambridge. And not just her legendary beauty. There was more to the stories than that. It was said she was Royalty of a different type than his own King William; that everyone in her Queendom was treated the same, from the chief of her guards down to the lowliest peasant.
Of course, King William treated everyone the same as well. But he treated everyone as scum he rubbed off the bottom of his boot before entering his castle.
Queen Gracelyn, they said, was different.
Her carriage pulled up in front of the castle and her manservant was instantly off his seat and holding her door, proffering his hand. She placed hers on top of his and met his eyes with a smile, acknowledging his service.
As she alighted, a gust of wind caught the cape on her shoulders, whipping it around. Suddenly, it was loose, riding the current of air.
His reflexes were quick. He snatched the royal fabric from the air, before it touched the dusty ground.
Approaching her with it in his arms, he abruptly realized the audacity of his actions and dropped down on one knee, his eyes lowered.
Her laughter was like a breeze playing with a silver wind chime. “Thank you, kind sir. Arise.” Her voice was surprisingly strong for a woman not yet out of her teens, and it was a heartbeat before he realized she was addressing HIM. Though he was a skilled swordsman, no Royalty had ever addressed him directly.
He rose on trembling legs, his eyes still down. As she retrieved her cape, she brushed the fingers of both her hands across his arms. He raised his head in surprise and found her warm brown eyes gazing into his, lit with the smile that beamed on her face.
All of the stories were true.
He had loved her ever since, knowing all too well that his love was inappropriate, and futile.
Over the years, he’d eagerly anticipated her monthly visits, volunteering for extra duty in the hope of catching a glimpse of her.
She always met his eyes and smiled.
Then, eighteen months earlier, King William had wed the young Lady Jenna. Shortly after, streams that watered Westmoorland’s northern regions began to diminish, a few drying up completely. Because the origin of the streams lay in Cambridge’s south, King William blamed the Queen, even though a stretch of No Man’s Land separated the two borders.
King William proclaimed Queen Gracelyn his enemy, nullifying a peace treaty that had stood for generations, and the warrior’s heart had broken. It was for this reason he volunteered for the mission to infiltrate her realm, but he knew not what his King was planning. His only instructions had been to observe.
But to tell her even the little he knew would be treason. Cowardice. He was neither a traitor nor a coward.
So he would suffer unimaginable torture at the hands of his beloved. Perhaps even death.
Chapter Two
HIS HANDS AND ARMS WERE numb, but one shoulder was dislocated. As long as he didn’t move, it only produced a dull ache, and that he could easily handle.
But unable to stand flat-footed, not moving was difficult. The muscles in his legs burned, from the backs of his calves upward to his ass.
His nipples were also numb, as were his balls. She wouldn’t really emasculate him…would she? After all, he was not a manservant; he was a knight!
Occasionally, pain from his wounded side penetrated his consciousness above all else. He wondered if he was still bleeding; wondered how much blood he had lost. He was weak. The hunger he could block from his mind; he had trained himself to withstand it. But the thirst and the cold. These were different matters.
Time no longer had meaning. He didn’t know if he’d been alone with his agonies for half an hour, or all night. He refused to let himself think about it; it was easier that way.
His legs were trembling, trying to hold his weight. He lost his balance and felt the bones in his dislocated shoulder grind against each other. He didn’t realize he had voiced the pain until he heard his own scream echoing off the dungeon walls. His legs buckled and, for a moment, he let himself hang from the chain attached to his collar. The front of the collar pressed into his throat and his consciousness threatened to ebb away.
It crossed his mind to let it happen. It would take several minutes before the pressure against his throat rendered him unconscious, but once done, the pain would be gone.
But that would be cowardice.
He braced the balls of his feet against the cold dirt floor and lifted himself. When the bones of his shoulder scraped together again, he was prepared and only a slight moan escaped his lips.
He heard the door open and the flickering light from the torches lit the room again. Philippe, Marcus and another guard circled him. The third man was lean and tall, dark-headed and clean-shaven. Marcus stepped in front, reaching forward with a nasty sneer on his face.
The warrior clenched his jaw and readied himself for what he knew was coming. The guard tore the clamps from his nipples in one swift yank, rocking the warrior’s balance and setting the bones of his shoulder off, again. The warrior inhaled sharply through his nose, but made not a sound.
The guard reached out again and the warrior tensed. His nipples were one thing, but…
“Marcus!” Queen Gracelyn’s reprimand came from somewhere behind him, near the door. “I will tend to that myself.”
The guard’s face became a blank mask. “Yes, my Queen,” Marcus grumbled.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her approach. As she neared, she lifted her hand, but the stroke of her fingertips against his skin was so light he barely felt it. An older man with shoulder-length gray hair and a wizened face accompanied her. The man surveyed the captured warrior with learned eyes.
“My Queen,” The man said softly. “His right shoulder is dislocated.”
Queen Gracelyn stopped in front of the warrior and her lips parted as surprise crossed her face. She quickly recovered her composure, but there was a shadow of sadness in her eyes when she looked at him.
“Move him to the table,” she commanded her guards without looking away from his gaze.
Working in sync, they freed his ankles from the eyebolts, his collar from the chain holding him upright, and his cuffs from the collar. They dragged him towards the ta
ble.
Agony surged through his body, fueling his anger. His left fist slammed into the jaw of the guard Marcus and the guard fell back, his hand going to his face in shock.
The Queen smiled.
Philippe wrenched his right hand behind him and the bones of his shoulder scraped together again. His roar of anguished fury filled the room and the fight was soon over. The soldiers wrestled him down onto the narrow wooden table, secured his left hand to the top and his ankles to the bottom. Philippe stretched his right arm over his head, prepared to secure it as well.
“Wait.” The older man spoke. “I need that arm by his side, for now. Just hold him still.”
Two soldiers held his arm down. With a quick manipulation, the older man’s practiced hands moved the joint back in place and the warrior gave his pain voice. The old man stepped out of the way and the soldiers chained his right hand above his head, in the same manner as his left.
He was once again restrained, defenseless. The collar prevented him from turning his head. His chest heaved.
The guards fell back, as the man moved to the left side of the table. He examined the warrior’s minor wounds and then turned his attention to the warrior’s side. His fingers were gentle as he probed the gash. After a moment, he raised his eyes to the Queen. “This is the only injury he has of any consequence. I will need to clean it and stitch it up.”
She nodded. As the physician began, she moved to the opposite side of the table. Leaning over him, she gazed into his eyes and wiped the sweat from his brow with a rag.
“Such a strong spirit, you have.” She said softly. “So much fight still in you. Unfortunately, that spirit will not serve you well, now. It can only prolong your torment.”
The physician poured a liquid into his wound and it stung like fire. He winced.
“Tell me why you are here, in Cambridge, disguised as a peasant. Tell me and Gaius will use a local anesthetic. You won’t feel the pain.”
He searched her eyes, wanting to tell her, not because of the pain he felt, but because of the pain he saw on her face.
Instead, he clenched his jaw and remained silent.
Sighing, she briefly closed her eyes. Moving down the table, she stopped at his thighs and began loosening a screw on the wooden press still crushing his balls.
The physician finished cleaning the wound and threaded a small needle with a length of sinew.
“Stop, Gaius. You will not stitch his side.” Her voice was cold, with a weary edge to it. “Build a fire,” she commanded the guards, gathered by the open door. “A small one.” They began immediately.
“My Queen, if the wound isn’t closed, it will continue to bleed.”
“I realize that,” she snapped. “You won’t use stitches. You will cauterize it.”
The warrior gulped, watching as surprise crossed the old man’s face.
“Don’t look at me that way. I’m not enjoying this. But if King William is planning to attack, I must find out. Philippe!”
The guard rushed to her side.
“I want him strapped down on the table.”
Philippe responded with the customary remark and went to work, adding thick leather straps, one across the warrior’s chest, just under his armpits, one across his waist, and one above his ankles. And then one around each thigh, holding his legs apart.
She continued, almost absent-mindedly, to unscrew the contraption from his testicles. “Let me know when the fire is ready,” she said softly to the guard still beside her.
Philippe murmured his response with a bow and joined the other two in their work.
The warrior closed his eyes. Stitches were no problem, even without anesthetics. On two occasions, after a battle, he had even stitched himself up. The pain from the needle was easy to block.
But cauterization!
When she removed the last part of the wooden device, pain and relief both flooded his mind and he reflexively struggled against the straps binding him. He felt her fingers as she examined him. Her touch began as gentle as a lover’s, but slowly escalated as she twisted and pulled and squeezed his sac, sometimes each testicle separately and sometimes both as a whole.
And then, suddenly, her touch was gone. He fought against the collar to raise his head and look. She was no longer at his side, but standing by the table across the room.
Choosing another implement of torture.
His eyesight started to blur as the collar pressed against his throat. He laid his head down on the table, his heart pounding.
The feel of a thin flogger against his balls wrenched an involuntary gasp from him. His thighs struggled against the straps, trying without success to close and afford him a small measure of protection.
The flogger struck again, its tails stinging the flesh of his cock, still encased in metal. He clenched his jaw and curled his hands into fists as he commanded control over his body to minimize its reaction.
The flogger continued to strike, sometimes so softly it was almost a caress, but more often, with cruel force. Its tails landed on his genitals, inner thighs, even his abdomen. Again and again. The soft strokes became a memory, as the tails landed with a quickening pace.
Finally, a roar of pain escaped his throat and the Queen stopped using the flogger. He lay there, gasping for air, and only then realized he’d been holding his breath.
Philippe appeared at her side. “The fire is hot, my Queen.”
“Good,” she murmured. “Where is his dagger? The one he had when he was captured?”
“I…um, believe Marcus has it, Your Highness.”
Her eyebrows rose at the news. “Tell him to put it in the fire. We’ll use it.”
Bowing, the guard departed. Trailing her fingertips lightly on his skin, the Queen returned to the warrior’s chest, leaning over to look in his eyes.
“Your last chance.” Her eyes pleaded with him. “Tell me…is King William planning an attack? Is that why he sent you? To determine the strength of my army? Tell me…and Gaius will stitch your wound. Tell me…don’t make me do this to you.”
He held her gaze as long as he could, until he feared he would blurt out his feelings. Then, with a sigh, he closed his eyes.
A growl of frustration escaped her lips and her fist landed painlessly on his chest.
“So be it, my warrior. ‘Tis your choice.”
He barely felt the lash of a short whip against his thigh. His mind was distracted. Had she really called him Her warrior? But by the third time the thinly braided leather lay across his skin, the pain had penetrated his thoughts. His body squirmed involuntarily against his bindings as the whip landed repeatedly, each time harder than before. Sounds came from his throat against his wishes.
“Gracie…”
He heard the name murmured and the whip ceased striking him. Opening his eyes, he strained against the collar to see.
Gaius was standing in front of the Queen, his fingers wrapped around her wrist, the whip hanging limply from her hand. She dropped the weapon and it landed with a soft thud on the dirt floor. Gaius pulled Queen Gracelyn into his fatherly arms. The warrior stared in shock, not just because of the older man’s bold actions.
But because Queen Gracelyn was crying.
Philippe approached them both. “The dagger is ready, my Queen.”
The Queen stepped away from Gaius, turning her back. Gaius nodded at the guard. “Bring it to me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Cinch the straps down tighter.” Queen Gracelyn’s voice was still strong, though uneven, and she spoke without turning around. “He mustn’t be able to move.”
Marcus and the third guard scurried to obey her orders.
Philippe returned, holding the dagger gingerly by the leather-wrapped handle. The blade glowed a dullish red. He laid
it down on the table.
Using a rag for further protection, Gaius picked up the knife and then hesitated, looking at the warrior’s face and meeting his gaze.
The warrior closed his eyes. There was no preparing himself for what was coming and yet, he tried. His hands curled into fists and he took a deep breath.
Gaius pressed the red-hot steel against the warrior’s wound.
Instantly, the stench of burning flesh and blood filled the air. The raw meat on the edges of the wound sizzled against the blade.
The warrior’s bellow echoed against the chamber walls. The Queen turned and fled through the door.
Gaius examined the burn, and then applied a healing ointment to it and covered it with a bandage.
The guards gathered just inside the door, talking quietly. The old physician continued using the ointment, applying it to the warrior’s wounds from his fight with the soldiers, the area around his nipples where his flesh was torn, and on his stomach, groin and thighs where the whip had broken the skin.
Wiping his hands off with a rag, he produced a flask and held it to the warrior’s lips.
“Drink.” His voice was soft, soothing.
The warrior drank the water until Gaius pulled the flask away.
“Easy, now. Too much, too quickly will make you sick. Here.” He glanced furtively at the guards and then offered his patient a bite of meat.
The warrior’s eyes widened and he searched the old man’s face before accepting the food.
Gaius smiled. “Compliments of Queen Gracelyn, but…” his eyes twinkled. “We needn’t tell the guards.”
The venison was tender and the warrior devoured it. The doctor produced a second piece and then more. Swallowing his fifth chunk of meat, the warrior voiced his doubt.
Knight of Westmoorland: The Queen and the warrior Page 2
